ASPIRATION.

ASPIRATION.

I.“What Cyclopean force is this I feel,Heaving the central fires within my heart?While full-orbéd splendors round my spirit wheel,And, gazing into vacant space, I start,For seems a fair hand beckons me apart.Oh! I will try,Before I die,To find a voice this mystery to reveal.II.“Why do I seem to sit upon a cloud,Wearing the crimson mantle of the sun,Delighted when the wind-god shrieks aloud,And raptured when the midnight thunder-gunTells where the nimble-footed lightnings run?Shall I not tryEre age draw nighSome world-enticing poem to unshroud?III.“Why do the bygone years, with accents cold,Call to me through the darkness from their grave,Till thinking on their dowry, tears are rolledDown my wan cheeks? I think of all they gave,And all they stole from me, their fool and slave.Earnestly I,Henceforth will tryTo sublimate my life to purest gold.IV.“And often while I dally with the Night,Running my fingers through her raven hair,There floats up to my shocked and tearful sightAn angel’s face, transformed with pain and careO, maiden! long beloved, I see you there,But you and IMay never tryTo braid our love into a zone of light.V.“The organ of the Universe is playedBy bards who strike the keys with master sweep,Upon its music-waves I float, afraid,Yet joyous, doubtful if to smile or weep,And haunted by its sea of sound in sleep,I wake to tryA purpose high—To earn the poet’s crown before I fade.VI.“O, Heaven! while my spirit gladly sings,Shape her vague tremblings to some useful end,And purify my strange imaginings,That when the better years which hither tend,Pass on, I may be called Man’s poet-friend,Thus will I try,Before I dieTo shake the earth-dregs from my soaring wings.”VII.So sang a poet by the harping sea,And thick as white shells strewn upon the beach,Fancies came thronging to him, wild and free,And bade him limn their airy forms in speech:But still he only sang with aimless reach,“All things do cryPilgrim, try!Thrill the tame world with sun-lit poesy.”VIII.Years rolled away, and by the sea-licked shoreThe moonbeams quivered on a lonely mound;The pilgrim-poet’s turbulence was o’er,And that secluded spot was holy ground;For he with songs of wondrous love had crownedInsulted Right;And pure and brightHis verse illumed the sorrows of the poor.IX.He left behind him, though he knew it not,A trail of glory on the world’s highway,And loving fingers now denote the spotWhere he was wont to build the witching lay,And champions of mind, admiring, say,“Grandly he tried,Before he died,To teach dull earth the majesty of thought.”

I.“What Cyclopean force is this I feel,Heaving the central fires within my heart?While full-orbéd splendors round my spirit wheel,And, gazing into vacant space, I start,For seems a fair hand beckons me apart.Oh! I will try,Before I die,To find a voice this mystery to reveal.II.“Why do I seem to sit upon a cloud,Wearing the crimson mantle of the sun,Delighted when the wind-god shrieks aloud,And raptured when the midnight thunder-gunTells where the nimble-footed lightnings run?Shall I not tryEre age draw nighSome world-enticing poem to unshroud?III.“Why do the bygone years, with accents cold,Call to me through the darkness from their grave,Till thinking on their dowry, tears are rolledDown my wan cheeks? I think of all they gave,And all they stole from me, their fool and slave.Earnestly I,Henceforth will tryTo sublimate my life to purest gold.IV.“And often while I dally with the Night,Running my fingers through her raven hair,There floats up to my shocked and tearful sightAn angel’s face, transformed with pain and careO, maiden! long beloved, I see you there,But you and IMay never tryTo braid our love into a zone of light.V.“The organ of the Universe is playedBy bards who strike the keys with master sweep,Upon its music-waves I float, afraid,Yet joyous, doubtful if to smile or weep,And haunted by its sea of sound in sleep,I wake to tryA purpose high—To earn the poet’s crown before I fade.VI.“O, Heaven! while my spirit gladly sings,Shape her vague tremblings to some useful end,And purify my strange imaginings,That when the better years which hither tend,Pass on, I may be called Man’s poet-friend,Thus will I try,Before I dieTo shake the earth-dregs from my soaring wings.”VII.So sang a poet by the harping sea,And thick as white shells strewn upon the beach,Fancies came thronging to him, wild and free,And bade him limn their airy forms in speech:But still he only sang with aimless reach,“All things do cryPilgrim, try!Thrill the tame world with sun-lit poesy.”VIII.Years rolled away, and by the sea-licked shoreThe moonbeams quivered on a lonely mound;The pilgrim-poet’s turbulence was o’er,And that secluded spot was holy ground;For he with songs of wondrous love had crownedInsulted Right;And pure and brightHis verse illumed the sorrows of the poor.IX.He left behind him, though he knew it not,A trail of glory on the world’s highway,And loving fingers now denote the spotWhere he was wont to build the witching lay,And champions of mind, admiring, say,“Grandly he tried,Before he died,To teach dull earth the majesty of thought.”

I.“What Cyclopean force is this I feel,Heaving the central fires within my heart?While full-orbéd splendors round my spirit wheel,And, gazing into vacant space, I start,For seems a fair hand beckons me apart.Oh! I will try,Before I die,To find a voice this mystery to reveal.

II.“Why do I seem to sit upon a cloud,Wearing the crimson mantle of the sun,Delighted when the wind-god shrieks aloud,And raptured when the midnight thunder-gunTells where the nimble-footed lightnings run?Shall I not tryEre age draw nighSome world-enticing poem to unshroud?

III.“Why do the bygone years, with accents cold,Call to me through the darkness from their grave,Till thinking on their dowry, tears are rolledDown my wan cheeks? I think of all they gave,And all they stole from me, their fool and slave.Earnestly I,Henceforth will tryTo sublimate my life to purest gold.

IV.“And often while I dally with the Night,Running my fingers through her raven hair,There floats up to my shocked and tearful sightAn angel’s face, transformed with pain and careO, maiden! long beloved, I see you there,But you and IMay never tryTo braid our love into a zone of light.

V.“The organ of the Universe is playedBy bards who strike the keys with master sweep,Upon its music-waves I float, afraid,Yet joyous, doubtful if to smile or weep,And haunted by its sea of sound in sleep,I wake to tryA purpose high—To earn the poet’s crown before I fade.

VI.“O, Heaven! while my spirit gladly sings,Shape her vague tremblings to some useful end,And purify my strange imaginings,That when the better years which hither tend,Pass on, I may be called Man’s poet-friend,Thus will I try,Before I dieTo shake the earth-dregs from my soaring wings.”

VII.So sang a poet by the harping sea,And thick as white shells strewn upon the beach,Fancies came thronging to him, wild and free,And bade him limn their airy forms in speech:But still he only sang with aimless reach,“All things do cryPilgrim, try!Thrill the tame world with sun-lit poesy.”

VIII.Years rolled away, and by the sea-licked shoreThe moonbeams quivered on a lonely mound;The pilgrim-poet’s turbulence was o’er,And that secluded spot was holy ground;For he with songs of wondrous love had crownedInsulted Right;And pure and brightHis verse illumed the sorrows of the poor.

IX.He left behind him, though he knew it not,A trail of glory on the world’s highway,And loving fingers now denote the spotWhere he was wont to build the witching lay,And champions of mind, admiring, say,“Grandly he tried,Before he died,To teach dull earth the majesty of thought.”

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