The Poet

He touch'd the earth, a soul of flame,
His bearing proud, his spirit high;
Fill'd with the heavens whence he came,
He smiled upon man's destiny;
Yet smiled as one who knows no fear,
And felt a secret strength within;
Who wonder'd at the pitying tear
Shed over human loss and sin.
Lit by an inward, brighter light,
Than aught that round about him shone,
He walk'd erect through shades of night;
Clear was his pathway — but how lone!
Men gaze in wonder and in awe
Upon a form so like to theirs,
Worship the presence, yet withdraw
And carry elsewhere warmer prayers.
Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest,
Forgetting once his strange estate,
Unloosed the lyre from off his breast,
And strung its chords to human fate;
And, gayly snatching some rude air,
Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue,
Gave back the notes that linger'd there,
And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung;
Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought
To thank him with a brother's soul,
And when the generous wine was brought,
Shared in the feast, and quaff d the bowl;
Men laid their hearts low at his feet,
And sunn'd their being in his light,
Press'd on his way his steps to greet,
And in his love forgot his might.
And when, a wanderer long on earth,
On him its shadow also fell,
And dimm'd the lustre of a birth
Whose day-spring was from Heaven's own well;
They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed,
Their woes were hallow'd by his wo,
Humanity, half cold and dead,
Had been revived in genius' glow.