Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To One Who Bade Me "Go Win a Name"
TO ONE WHO BADE ME "GO WIN A NAME."
Poet! whose prophetic numbers
Seem to point me to a name,
Know that in my bosom slumbers
Every pulse that wakes to fame.
Themes like mine are not for glory!
Thoughts like mine win feeble praise;
Mine is not the classic story,
Mine are not scholastic lays.
Not from tome of art or learning
Came the spark of sacred fire;
But the heart within me burning,
Formed itself into a lyre.
And among its frail shreds ever
Spirit-voices whisper low—
Spirit-voices which are never
Echoed in this world below.
Mind may be renowned for ages,
Reason rear her altar high,
But the heart's more humble pages
Live unread, and darkened die.
Like Eolian harp-chords waking
To each starting of the gale,
And in some strong tempest breaking
With a wild and mournful wail—
So the heart-strings thrill and quiver
To the world's rude borean breath,
Till the "silver cords" do sever,
Or are gently loosed by death.
So, as notes Eolian perish,
When the breeze has died away,
Will the soul-strains now I cherish
Live but only for a day.