Who, then, the changeless orders of creation
Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance? 
Who brings the One to join the general ordination,
Where it may throb in grandest consonance? 
Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom? 
In brooding souls the sunset burn above? 
Who scatters every fairest April blossom
Along the shining path of Love? 
Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting
Desert with fame, in Action’s every field? 
Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting? 
The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed.

MERRY-ANDREW

So, these fine forces, in conjunction,
Propel the high poetic function,
As in a love-adventure they might play! 
You meet by accident; you feel, you stay,
And by degrees your heart is tangled;
Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled;
You’re ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe,
And there’s a neat romance, completed ere you know! 
Let us, then, such a drama give! 
Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live! 
Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: 
Where’er you touch, there’s interest without end. 
In motley pictures little light,
Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite,
Thus the best beverage is supplied,
Whence all the world is cheered and edified. 
Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower
Of youth collect, to hear the revelation! 
Each tender soul, with sentimental power,
Sucks melancholy food from your creation;
And now in this, now that, the leaven works. 
For each beholds what in his bosom lurks. 
They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter,
Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see: 
A mind, once formed, is never suited after;
One yet in growth will ever grateful be.

POET

Then give me back that time of pleasures,
While yet in joyous growth I sang,—­
When, like a fount, the crowding measures
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! 
Then bright mist veiled the world before me,
In opening buds a marvel woke,
As I the thousand blossoms broke,
Which every valley richly bore me! 
I nothing had, and yet enough for youth—­
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 
Give, unrestrained, the old emotion,
The bliss that touched the verge of pain,
The strength of Hate, Love’s deep devotion,—­
O, give me back my youth again!

MERRY ANDREW

Youth, good my friend, you certainly require
When foes in combat sorely press you;
When lovely maids, in fond desire,
Hang on your bosom and caress you;
When from the hard-won goal the wreath
Beckons afar, the race awaiting;
When, after dancing out your breath,
You pass the night in dissipating:—­
But that familiar harp with soul
To play,—­with grace and bold expression,
And towards a self-erected goal
To walk with many a sweet digression,—­
This, aged Sirs, belongs to you,
And we no less revere you for that reason: 
Age childish makes, they say, but ’tis not true;
We’re only genuine children still, in Age’s season!