POPULARITY.
I.Stand still, true poet that you are!I know you; let me try and draw you.Some night you’ll fail us: when afarYou rise, remember one man saw you,Knew you, and named a star!II.My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extendThat loving hand of His which leads you,Yet locks you safe from end to endOf this dark world, unless He needs you,Just saves your light to spend?III.His clenched hand shall unclose at last,I know, and let out all the beauty:My poet holds the future fast,Accepts the coming ages’ duty,Their present for this past.IV.That day, the earth’s feast-master’s browShall clear, to God the chalice raising;“Others give best at first, but Thou“Forever set’st our table praising,“Keep’st the good wine till now!”V.Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,With few or none to watch and wonder:I’ll say—a fisher, on the sandBy Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,A netful, brought to land.VI.Who has not heard how Tyrian shellsEnclosed the blue, that dye of dyesWhereof one drop worked miracles,And coloured like Astarte’s eyesRaw silk the merchant sells?VII.And each bystander of them allCould criticize, and quote traditionHow depths of blue sublimed some pall—To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;Worth sceptre, crown and ball.VIII.Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,The sea has only just o’er-whispered!Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,As if they still the water’s lisp heardThrough foam the rock-weeds thresh.IX.Enough to furnish SolomonSuch hangings for his cedar-house,That, when gold-robed he took the throneIn that abyss of blue, the SpouseMight swear his presence shone.X.Most like the centre-spike of goldWhich burns deep in the blue-bell’s wombWhat time, with ardours manifold,The bee goes singing to her groom,Drunken and overbold.XI.Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!Till cunning come to pound and squeezeAnd clarify,—refine to proofThe liquor filtered by degrees,While the world stands aloof.XII.And there’s the extract, flasked and fine,And priced and saleable at last!And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combineTo paint the future from the past,Put blue into their line.XIII.Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,—Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?What porridge had John Keats?
I.Stand still, true poet that you are!I know you; let me try and draw you.Some night you’ll fail us: when afarYou rise, remember one man saw you,Knew you, and named a star!II.My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extendThat loving hand of His which leads you,Yet locks you safe from end to endOf this dark world, unless He needs you,Just saves your light to spend?III.His clenched hand shall unclose at last,I know, and let out all the beauty:My poet holds the future fast,Accepts the coming ages’ duty,Their present for this past.IV.That day, the earth’s feast-master’s browShall clear, to God the chalice raising;“Others give best at first, but Thou“Forever set’st our table praising,“Keep’st the good wine till now!”V.Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,With few or none to watch and wonder:I’ll say—a fisher, on the sandBy Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,A netful, brought to land.VI.Who has not heard how Tyrian shellsEnclosed the blue, that dye of dyesWhereof one drop worked miracles,And coloured like Astarte’s eyesRaw silk the merchant sells?VII.And each bystander of them allCould criticize, and quote traditionHow depths of blue sublimed some pall—To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;Worth sceptre, crown and ball.VIII.Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,The sea has only just o’er-whispered!Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,As if they still the water’s lisp heardThrough foam the rock-weeds thresh.IX.Enough to furnish SolomonSuch hangings for his cedar-house,That, when gold-robed he took the throneIn that abyss of blue, the SpouseMight swear his presence shone.X.Most like the centre-spike of goldWhich burns deep in the blue-bell’s wombWhat time, with ardours manifold,The bee goes singing to her groom,Drunken and overbold.XI.Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!Till cunning come to pound and squeezeAnd clarify,—refine to proofThe liquor filtered by degrees,While the world stands aloof.XII.And there’s the extract, flasked and fine,And priced and saleable at last!And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combineTo paint the future from the past,Put blue into their line.XIII.Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,—Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?What porridge had John Keats?
I.
I.
Stand still, true poet that you are!I know you; let me try and draw you.Some night you’ll fail us: when afarYou rise, remember one man saw you,Knew you, and named a star!
Stand still, true poet that you are!
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you’ll fail us: when afar
You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!
II.
II.
My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extendThat loving hand of His which leads you,Yet locks you safe from end to endOf this dark world, unless He needs you,Just saves your light to spend?
My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extend
That loving hand of His which leads you,
Yet locks you safe from end to end
Of this dark world, unless He needs you,
Just saves your light to spend?
III.
III.
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,I know, and let out all the beauty:My poet holds the future fast,Accepts the coming ages’ duty,Their present for this past.
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,
I know, and let out all the beauty:
My poet holds the future fast,
Accepts the coming ages’ duty,
Their present for this past.
IV.
IV.
That day, the earth’s feast-master’s browShall clear, to God the chalice raising;“Others give best at first, but Thou“Forever set’st our table praising,“Keep’st the good wine till now!”
That day, the earth’s feast-master’s brow
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;
“Others give best at first, but Thou
“Forever set’st our table praising,
“Keep’st the good wine till now!”
V.
V.
Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,With few or none to watch and wonder:I’ll say—a fisher, on the sandBy Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,A netful, brought to land.
Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,
With few or none to watch and wonder:
I’ll say—a fisher, on the sand
By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,
A netful, brought to land.
VI.
VI.
Who has not heard how Tyrian shellsEnclosed the blue, that dye of dyesWhereof one drop worked miracles,And coloured like Astarte’s eyesRaw silk the merchant sells?
Who has not heard how Tyrian shells
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes
Whereof one drop worked miracles,
And coloured like Astarte’s eyes
Raw silk the merchant sells?
VII.
VII.
And each bystander of them allCould criticize, and quote traditionHow depths of blue sublimed some pall—To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;Worth sceptre, crown and ball.
And each bystander of them all
Could criticize, and quote tradition
How depths of blue sublimed some pall
—To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;
Worth sceptre, crown and ball.
VIII.
VIII.
Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,The sea has only just o’er-whispered!Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,As if they still the water’s lisp heardThrough foam the rock-weeds thresh.
Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,
The sea has only just o’er-whispered!
Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,
As if they still the water’s lisp heard
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.
IX.
IX.
Enough to furnish SolomonSuch hangings for his cedar-house,That, when gold-robed he took the throneIn that abyss of blue, the SpouseMight swear his presence shone.
Enough to furnish Solomon
Such hangings for his cedar-house,
That, when gold-robed he took the throne
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse
Might swear his presence shone.
X.
X.
Most like the centre-spike of goldWhich burns deep in the blue-bell’s wombWhat time, with ardours manifold,The bee goes singing to her groom,Drunken and overbold.
Most like the centre-spike of gold
Which burns deep in the blue-bell’s womb
What time, with ardours manifold,
The bee goes singing to her groom,
Drunken and overbold.
XI.
XI.
Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!Till cunning come to pound and squeezeAnd clarify,—refine to proofThe liquor filtered by degrees,While the world stands aloof.
Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!
Till cunning come to pound and squeeze
And clarify,—refine to proof
The liquor filtered by degrees,
While the world stands aloof.
XII.
XII.
And there’s the extract, flasked and fine,And priced and saleable at last!And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combineTo paint the future from the past,Put blue into their line.
And there’s the extract, flasked and fine,
And priced and saleable at last!
And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine
To paint the future from the past,
Put blue into their line.
XIII.
XIII.
Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,—Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?What porridge had John Keats?
Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,—
Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?
What porridge had John Keats?
The true poet is he who discovers and discloses, for man’s recognition and enjoyment, the hidden beauties which abound everywhere in the great kingdom of God. These beauties may be unrecognised at first, so that the poet is not known as a poet, except to such as the speaker here is supposed to be (“I know you”). He recognises in him a star. How is it, then, that his light is hidden? The hand of God, who looks down on him from far above (“God’s glow-worm”) as I look up to him from far below (“my star”), has closed around him to keep him and his light safe till the time shall come for discovery (Stanza 3) and for recognition (4). The drawing, or simile follows, of a Tyrian fisherman (5), who brings from the great sea the common-looking little whelk, from which, by a secret process, is obtained that wonderful dye which out-dazzles art, and almost equals Nature’s most exquisite tints (6-10). While the process is going on, the world stands aloof (11); but as soon as the extract is “priced and saleable,” the commonest people (12) can recognise it and make it pay (13); while the man who fished it up remains poor and unknown to fame.
The application is made with characteristic brevity, oddity, and antithetic power: Nokes, Stokes, & Co., gorging turtle; John Keats wanting porridge!
In connection with “Popularity” should be studied “The Two Poets of Croisic,” far too long to be inserted here. An interesting comparison, also, may be made with a little poem of Tennyson’s called “The Flower,” beginning—
“Once in a golden hourI cast to earth a seed,Up there came a flower,The people said, a weed.”
“Once in a golden hourI cast to earth a seed,Up there came a flower,The people said, a weed.”
“Once in a golden hourI cast to earth a seed,Up there came a flower,The people said, a weed.”
“Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed,
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.”