Page:The Colonnades a Poem.pdf/17

In words the flower of universal growth,—
They have not mastered this—the Word is truth,—
They do not see the fool confute himself,
Nor know the great things that the man might do
Who can do these the least, the most remote:
Put rainbows into bubbles, catch the hum
Of life at the third bottle, and encomb
In his rightlinéd cells this odorous sap,
The sweet of nature. 'Tis for the men-kings
Who know the frailties of this mortal stuff,
Not in yew glooms and graveyards of the world
To poise his paper skull and sigh 'poor Yorick!'
But in his life to pay his subtle wants,
And wear their purple in the jester's service.

Welcome?—Ah! never did the languid waves
Leap for the moon's kiss, children for a tale
Of winter night, as will the hungry lands
To greet a poet now. The pope himself
Shall swing his cap for joy. The sacred bells
That only tumble in the throes of empire
Shall wind the tidings 'round their iron tongues
'Till their jaws ache. And where the organ droned
With scarce a sigh to heave its leathern lungs,
The bellows-men shall sweat, while fluctuant notes
That seek the fearful pitch of the new song
Float palpitating up the mellow tube,
'Till, gaining grandeur from the yearning theme,
They wildly mingle in the outer air,
And jar the building in the shuddering charge
Of thund'rous volleys rolling to the gods.