Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/234

POEMS OF OCCASION 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

The vow, whilst I knew not the afterweight

That poets weep,

The burthen under which one needs must bow,

The rude years envying

My voice the notes it fain would sing

For men belike to hear, as still they hear thee now.

Oh, the swift wind, the unrelenting sea!

They loved thee, yet they lured thee unaware

To be their spoil, lest alien skies to thee

Should seem more fair;

They had their will of thee, yet aye forlorn

Mourned the lithe soul's escape,

And gave the strand thy mortal shape

To be resolved in flame whereof its life was born.

Afloat on tropic waves, I yield once more

In age that heart of youth unto thy spell.

The century wanes: thy voice thrills as of yore

When first it fell. 204