Epilogue To Lessings Laocon

One Morn as through Hyde Park we walkd.     My friend and I, by chance we talkd     Of Lessings famed Laocon;     And after we awhile had gone     In Lessings track, and tried to see     What painting is, what poetry,     Diverging to another thought,     Ah, cries my friend, but who hath taught     Why music and the other arts     Oftener perform aright their parts     Than poetry? why she, than they,     Fewer real successes can display?     For tis so, surely! Even in Greece     Where best the poet framed his piece,     Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground     Pausanias on his travels found     Good poems, if he lookd, more rare     (Though many) than good statues were,     For these, in truth, were everywhere!     Of bards full many a stroke divine     In Dantes, Petrarchs, Tassos line,     The land of Ariosto showd;     And yet, een there, the canvas glowd     With triumphs, a yet ampler brood,     Of Raphael and his brotherhood.     And nobly perfect, in our day     Of haste, half-work, and disarray,     Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,     Hath risen Goethes, Wordsworths song;     Yet even I (and none will bow     Deeper to these!) must needs allow,     They yield us not, to soothe our pains,     Such multitude of heavenly strains     As from the kings of sound are blown,     Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn.     While thus my friend discoursed, we pass     Out of the path, and take the grass.     The grass had still the green of May,     And still the unblackend elms were gay;     The kine were resting in the shade,     The flies a summer murmur made;     Bright was the morn and south the air,     The soft-couchd cattle were as fair     As those that pastured by the sea,     That old-world morn, in Sicily,     When on the beach the Cyclops lay,     And Galatea from the bay     Mockd her poor lovelorn giants lay.     Behold, I said, the painters sphere!     The limits of his art appear!     The passing group, the summer morn,     The grass, the elms, that blossomd thorn;     Those cattle couchd, or, as they rise,     Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes;     These, or much greater things, but caught     Like these, and in one aspect brought.     In outward semblance he must give     A moments life of things that live;     Then let him choose his moment well,     With power divine its story tell!     Still we walkd on, in thoughtful mood,     And now upon the Bridge we stood.     Full of sweet breathings was the air,     Of sudden stirs and pauses fair;     Down oer the stately Bridge the breeze     Came rustling from the garden trees     And on the sparkling waters playd.     Light-plashing waves an answer made,     And mimic boats their haven neard.     Beyond, the Abbey towers appeard,     By mist and chimneys unconfined,     Free to the sweep of light and wind;     While, through the earth-moord nave below,     Another breath of wind doth blow,     Sound as of wandering breeze, but sound     In laws by human artists bound.     The world of music! I exclaimd,     This breeze that rustles by, that famed     Abbey recall it! what a sphere,     Large and profound, bath genius here!     Th inspired musician what a range,     What power of passion, wealth of change!     Some pulse of feeling he must choose     And its lockd fount of beauty use,     And through the stream of music tell     Its else unutterable spell;     To choose it rightly is his part,     And press into its inmost heart.     Miserere, Domine!     The words are utterd, and they flee.     Deep is their penitential moan,     Mighty their pathos, but tis gone!     They have declared the spirits sore     Sore load, and words can do no more.     Beethoven takes them then, those two     Poor, bounded words, and makes them new;     Infinite makes them, makes them young,     Transplants them to another tongue     Where they can now, without constraint,     Pour all the soul of their complaint,     And roll adown a channel large     The wealth divine they have in charge.     Page after page of music turn,     And still they live and still they burn,     Eternal, passion-fraught and free,     Miserere, Domine!     Onward we moved, and reachd the Ride     Where gaily flows the human tide.     Afar, in rest the cattle lay,     We heard, afar, faint music play;     But agitated, brisk, and near,     Men, with their stream of life, were here.     Some hang upon the rails, and some,     On foot, behind them, go and come.     This through the Ride upon his steed     Goes slowly by, and this at speed;     The young, the happy, and the fair,     The old, the sad, the worn were there;     Some vacant, and some musing went,     And some in talk and merriment.     Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!     And now and then, perhaps, there swells     A sigh, a tear, but in the throng     All changes fast, and files along;     Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?     And to what goal, what ending, bound?     Behold at last the poets sphere!     But who, I said, suffices here?     For, ah! so much he has to do!     Be painter and musician too!     The aspect of the moment show,     The feeling of the moment know!     The aspect not, I grant, express     Clear as the painters art can dress,     The feeling not, I grant, explore     So deep as the musicians lore,     But clear as words can make revealing,     And deep as words can follow feeling.     But, all, then comes his sorest spell     Of toil! he must lifes movement tell!     The thread which binds it all in one,     And not its separate parts alone!     The movement he must tell of life,     Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;     His eye must travel down, at full,     The long, unpausing spectacle;     With faithful unrelaxing force     Attend it from its primal source,     From change to change and year to year     Attend it of its mid career,     Attend it to the last repose     And solemn silence of its close.     The cattle rising from the grass     His thought must follow where they pass;     The penitent with anguish bowd     His thought must follow through the crowd.     Yes, all this eddying, motley throng     That sparkles in the sun along.     Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,     Master and servant, young and old,     Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,     He follows home, and lives their life!     And many, many are the souls     Lifes movement fascinates, controls.     It draws them on, they cannot save     Their feet from its alluring wave;     They cannot leave it, they must go     With its unconquerable flow.     But, ah, how few of all that try     This mighty march, do aught but die!     For ill prepared for such a way,     Ill found in strength, in wits, are they!     They faint, they stagger to and fro,     And wandering from the stream they go;     In pain, in terror, in distress,     They see, all round, a wilderness.     Sometimes a momentary gleam     They catch of the mysterious stream;     Sometimes, a seconds space, their ear     The murmur of its waves doth hear.     That transient glimpse in song they say,     But not as painter can pourtray!     That transient sound in song they tell,     But not, as the musician, well!     And when at last these snatches cease,     And they are silent and at peace,     The stream of lifes majestic whole     Hath neer been mirrord on their soul.     Only a few the life-streams shore     With safe unwandering feet explore,     Untired its movement bright attend,     Follow its windings to the end.     Then from its brimming waves their eye     Drinks up delighted ecstasy,     And its deep-toned, melodious voice,     For ever makes their ear rejoice.     They speak! the happiness divine     They feel, runs oer in every line.     Its spell is round them like a shower;     It gives them pathos, gives them power.     No painter yet hath such a way     Nor no musician made, as they;     And gatherd on immortal knolls     Such lovely flowers for cheering souls!     Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach     The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach.     To these, to these, their thankful race     Gives, then, the first, the fairest place!     And brightest is their glorys sheen     For greatest has their labour been.