George Meredith

Cannon his name, Cannon his voice, he came.

All wisdom's armoury this man could wield

Behold the life at ease; it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.

Full lasting is the song, though he, The singer, passes

With patient inattention hear him prate.

Civil limitation daunts His utterance never; the nymphs blush, not he.

Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare. Nothing harms beneath the leaves More than waves a swimmer cleaves. Toss your heart up with the lark, Foot at peace with mouse and worm,

Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend.

But O the truth, the truth! the many eyes That look on it! the diverse things they see!

The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.

For singing till his heaven fills, 'Tis love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes.

Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.

Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries?

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.