Great is the art, Great be the manners, of the bard. For his rhyme. 'Pass in, pass in,' the angels say, In to the upper doors, Nor count compartments of the floors, But mount to paradise By the stairway of surprise.' Blameless master of the games, Sings aloud the tune whereto Their pulses beat, And march their feet, And their members are combined. By Sybarites beguiled, He shall no task decline; Merlin's mighty line Extremes of nature reconciled, — Bereaved a tyrant of his will, And made the lion mild. Songs can the tempest still, Scattered on the stormy air, He shall not seek to weave, Wait his returning strength. Bird, that from the nadir's floor To the zenith's top can soar, The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length. Nor profane affect to hit Or compass that, by meddling wit, Which only the propitious mind There are open hours When the God's will sallies free, And the dull idiot might see The flowing fortunes of a thousand years; Sudden, at unawares, Self-moved, fly-to the doors, Nor sword of angels could reveal What they conceal. BACCHUS. BRING me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffered no savor of the earth to scape. Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root, Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus; And turns the woe of Night, By its own craft, to a more rich delight. Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled Among the silver hills of heaven, Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught assimilated, May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell, Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls. Water and bread, Food which needs no transmuting, Music and wine are one, That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Quickened so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock. I thank the joyful juice Of the ancient being blow, Pour, Bacchus the remembering wine; And the grape requite the lote! Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. |