[From the Prophecy of Dante.] GENIUS. MANY are poets who have never penned Their inspiration, and perchance, the best; They felt, and loved and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed The God within them, and rejoined the stars Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed Than those who are degraded by the jars Of passion, and their frailties linked to fame, Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. Many are poets, but without the One noble stroke with a whole life It is that settled, ceaseless gloom may glow, Or deify the canvas till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated and the line Of poesy which peoples but the air With thought and beings of our thought reflected, Can do no more: then let the artist share The palm; he shares the peril, and dejected Faints o'er the labor unapproved -Alas! Despair and genius are too oft connected. The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, And cannot hope for rest before. What exile from himself can flee? Still, still pursues, where'er I be, |