Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/175

142 O Rhyme, no bounds thy magic knows! And when at tournaments with prose Thou joustest, human words disclose
 * All their latent mysteries;

'Tis thou that mak'st all things to shine, Spread table, tankard, fruit and wine, Man's face that shadows the divine,
 * And woman's lustrous eyes!

Thou limnest the acanthus leaves Of graceful curves, the wheaten sheaves, And vine-sprays plucked in autumn eves
 * Which the wild Bacchantes wear,

And carvest as no goldsmith can The cloven-footed hairy Pan, On sides of brimming cups that man
 * Rightly deems the charm for care.

Thou wakest up the merry din Of fiddle and of violin, Until the organ swelling, win
 * The heart to loftier melodies,

Thou lendest life to hautboy shrill, And tourterelle with dove-like trill; O hark! that treble weeping still!
 * Thou givest it these sympathies.

Thanks to thee, the poet's song The cannon's thunder can prolong, And give the glave that rights the wrong
 * A lightning fiercely glancing;

Thou mak'st the axe more sharp and fell, The buckler round more proudly swell, And tall plumes wave 'mid shot and shell
 * On warriors proudly prancing!