Page:The Yellow Book - 01.djvu/170

 Alone he spread the solemn feast
 * For a most secret deity;

He knew the god had once been sire, And served the same memorial fire.

Ah! so, untouched by windy roar
 * Of public issues loud and long,

The Poet holds the sacred door,
 * And guards the glowing coal of song;

Not his to grasp at praise or blame,
 * Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun,

His only pride to tend the flame
 * That Homer and that Virgil won,

Retain the rite, preserve the act, And pass the worship on intact.

Before the shrine at last he falls;
 * The crowd rush in, a chattering band

But, ere he fades in death, he calls
 * Another priest to ward the brand;

He, with a gesture of disdain,
 * Flings back the ringing brazer gate,

Reproves, repressing, the profane,
 * And feeds the flame in primal state;

Content to toil and fade in turn, If still the sacred embers burn. Far