Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/225

ARIEL On us, who yearn in vain

To mock the pæan and the plain

Of tides that rise and fall with sweet mysterious rote.

Was it not well that the prophetic few,

So long inheritors of that high verse,

Dwelt in the mount alone, and haply knew

What stars rehearse?

But now with foolish cry the multitude

Awards at last the throne,

And claims thy cloudland for its own

With voices all untuned to thy melodious mood.

What joy it was to haunt some antique shade

Lone as thine echo, and to wreak my youth

Upon thy song,—to feel the throbs which made

Thy bliss, thy ruth,—

And thrill I knew not why, and dare to feel

Myself an heir unknown

To lands the poet treads alone

Ere to his soul the gods their presence quite reveal!

Even then, like thee, I vowed to dedicate

My powers to beauty; ay, but thou didst keep 205