300
  The burden of thy bearing till is rent
  Yon heavenly veil, and earth and air and deep
Tell secrets that shall rouse the dead from solemn sleep.

  And must I be as mute, O silent mount!
  Muse of all Melody, shall I not sing?—
  Burst these dumb bars, when e'en yon babbling fount
  May find in every breeze a wafting wing,
  Afar its lightest murmured word to fling?
  Where art thou, ancient Soul of Solemn Song?
  Asleep? Then wake! Wherefore art slumbering? 310
  The world hath need of thee, and waiteth long.
Strike, strike again thy harp, and thrill the listening throng!

  Thus musing, lone upon a beetling brow,
  Quaffing from unseen fount, those wilds among,
  The spirit of the sun-kissed torrent flow,
  Methought some lofty, caverned cliff had rung
  With echoings of a more than mortal tongue;
  Though softly clear the mournful cadence broke,
  As notes from off the weird-toned viol flung.
  Or was it yon lone cloud that muttering spoke, 320
Heralding the storm king's wrathful shout and shivering stroke?

  Amazed I listened. Did I more than dream?
  Had random word aroused unhoped reply?
  Or was it sound whose import did but seem?
  Hark!—for again it rolls along the sky:
  "Then question hast thou none? Or none wouldst ply,
  Save to thy soul in meditative strain,
  Or heedless winds that wander idly by?
  So be it; still to me thy purpose plain,
Thy hidden wish revealed, nor thus revealed in vain." 330

  While freshening waves of woodland-scented air
  Widened the spell of that immortal tone;
  While, as on threshold of a lion's lair,
  Speechless I stood, as stricken into stone;
  Methought the sun with lessening splendor shone,
  As if that wandering cloud obscured his gaze.
  Then burst the glory from his midday throne!
  Turning, mine eye beheld, in rapt amaze,
What memory ne'er would lose were life of endless days.

  A stately form, of giant stature tall; 340
  Of hoary aspect, venerable and grave;
  Whose curling locks and beard of copious fall
  Vied the white foam of ocean's storm-whipt wave.
  The firm-fixt eye flashed lightnings from its cave;
  Far-darting penetration's gaze combined
  With wisdom's milder light. Of study gave
  Deep evidence that brow by learning lined,
Thought's towering throne, where ruled his realm a monarch
       mind.

  The spirit's garb—for spirit so he seemed— 350
  Fell radiant in many a flowing fold;
  A robe antique, by modern limners deemed
  Befitting monk or eremite of old.
  Head, hands, and feet were bare; the presence bold
  With majesty, e'en as a god might wear,
  While condescending to a mortal mould.
  He spake—the voice no longer thrilled with fear;
Like some vast organ swell, it charmed, enchained, the ear.

  "Long have I watched and waited, but no sound
  Broke the wild stillness of this stern abode, 360
  Save thunder's fiery foot-print smote the ground,
  Or far beneath some torrent's fury flowed;
  Anon the screaming eagle past me rode;
  The seeker after gold, with toilsome stride,
  And eager eye to fix the shining lode,
  Hath paused and panted on the hill's steep side;
But none, for greater things, till now have hither hied.

  "And thou, O pensive crier in the waste,
  Invoker of the Voice now visible!
  Prepared art thou a mystery to taste, 370
  Whose fruit is joy or woe ineffable?
  Pluck not of wisdom's branches bending full,
  Drink not of that divine philosophy,
  Save thou canst bravely suffer wrong's misrule,
  Thy best intent thought ill; save thou canst be
What men deem "fool," real fools despising, pitying thee.

  "Not all my ministry to lift the gloom
  Yet hovering o'er this mystic hemisphere.
  List while I tell, for I am one by whom
  Future and past as present shall appear. 380
  In me behold Messiah's Minister,
  Ancient of time and of eternity,
  Spirit of song that moved the Hebrew seer,
  Voice of the stars[7] ere earth's nativity;
Exile, for ages gone, of mortal minstrelsy.

  "See now my sacred heritage, the prey
  Of ribald rhymesters, sensuous, half obscene;
  Of gloating censors, glad o'er my decay,
  And deeming all but best I ne'er had been!
  The body's bard[8] throned, sceptering the scene, 390
  A groveling worshiper of earth and time.
  Arise! and with thy soul's celestial sheen,
  Shame these false meteors, change the ruling chime;
My minstrel, I thy muse, sing thou the song sublime!

  "Sing, poet, sing! but not of new—of old,
  Of old and new—eternal truth thy theme,
  That holdeth past and future in her fold,
  That maketh present but a passing dream,
  While time and earth and man as trifles seem;
  That knoweth not of new, or old, or strange; 400
  Whose everduring, all-redemptive scheme,
  Fixt and immutable 'mid worlds of change,
On, on, from universe to universe doth range.

  "Faint not, nor fear, for all shall fare thy way—
  My way, His way, the Master's, evermore.
  East shall seem West, rethrown the rising ray,
  Shining afar from this most ancient shore[9],
  And man shall rise[10] e'en where man fell before.
  Fools may deride, may jeer at destiny;
  They mock to mourn, oblivion earths them o'er; 410
  While they that champion truth, by truth shall be
Exalted, e'en in time, to live eternally."

  The ancient paused, and, unperceived till then,
  A wondrous harp his bosom swung before,
  Such harp as played the shepherd psalmist[11] when
  A maddening rage his monarch seized and tore,
  And music's magic quelled satanic power.
  Seated, his form against the crag reclined,
  He waved me to his feet, and forth did pour,
  As pours Niagara on the plaintive wind, 420
Floods of majestic song, falling from mind to mind.

  Full tale of wonders told, I may not tell,
  Though mind be heir to all of mystery;
  With milk of truth the breasts of wisdom swell,
  Sufficing past and present infancy.
  But matching all the modern eye may see
  With marvels promised to the future sight,
  'Twas as the shrub unto the sheltering tree,
  The floating swan unto the eagle's flight,
The hillock to the snow-crowned summit, lost in light. 430

  Silent he towered above me, harp in hand,—
  Was it a dream? Could dream so vivid be?—
  And with his mantle's fold my forehead fanned.
  Then leapt to life the flame of poesy!
  Was it a vision of my destiny?
  Upon the mount, as erst, I stood alone,
  And naught was there of muse or minstrelsy;
  Save that afar still trembled that strange tone,
And something said within: "That harp is now thine own."

CANTO THREE