Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17.djvu/320

312 From a mortal rudiment,

From the earth-cell

And the love-cell,

By the birth-spell

And the love-spell—

Come to beauty.

Beauty, that, (Celestial Child,

From above,

Born of Wisdom and of Love,)

Can never die!

That ever, as she passeth by,

But casteth down the mild

Effulgence of her eye,

And, lo! the broken heart is healed,

The maimed, perverted soul

Ariseth and is whole!

That ever doing the fair deed,

And therein taking joy,

(A pure and priceless meed

That of this earth hath least alloy,)

It comes at last,

All mischance forever past,—

Every beautiful procedure

Manifest in form and feature,—

To be revealed:

There walks the earth an heavenly creature!

Beauty is music mute,—

Music's flower and fruit,

Music's creature—

Form and feature—

Music's lute.

Music's lute be thou,

Maiden of the starry brow!

(Keep thy heart true to know how!)

A Lute which he alone,

As all in good time shall be shown,

Shall prove, and thereby make his own,

Who is god enough to play upon it.

Happy, happy maid is she

Who is wedded unto Truth:

Thou shalt know him when he comes,

(Welcome youth!)

Not by any din of drums,

Nor the vantage of his airs;

Neither by his crown,

Nor his gown,

Nor by anything he wears.

He shall only well known be

By the holy harmony

That his coming makes in thee!