To One Who Bade Me "Go Win a Name"

Poet! whose prophetic numbersSeem to point me to a name,Know that in my bosom slumbersEvery 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 learningCame the spark of sacred fire;But the heart within me burning,Formed itself into a lyre.

And among its frail shreds everSpirit-voices whisper low—Spirit-voices which are neverEchoed in this world below.

Mind may be renowned for ages,Reason rear her altar high,But the heart's more humble pagesLive unread, and darkened die.

Like Eolian harp-chords wakingTo each starting of the gale,And in some strong tempest breakingWith a wild and mournful wail—

So the heart-strings thrill and quiverTo 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 cherishLive but only for a day.