Poems — The Fate Of The Lyrist

THE FATE OF THE LYRIST.

The soul is ever clinging unto form;

Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm The great heart of humanity--in life's fierce storm Pass they the Lyrist by.

The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays;

And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze, The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze, His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.

But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight, Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night, Fall dull upon the common ear--their might Is to the world a mystery.

Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual-- Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall;

Within the limits of the actual, Men pass, unheeding the divinity.

Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd;

But from amidst the masses earthward bowed, Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed, To list their Orphic melody.