Fringilla. Richard Doddridge Blackmore

          Thou feeble implement of mind,

            Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

              name;

          But, like a mitcher, left behind

            No signature, no stroke, no claim,

              No hint that she hath pined—

          Shall ever come a stronger time,

              When thou shalt be a tool of skill,

            And steadfast purpose, to fulfil

          A higher task than rhyme?

          Thou puny instrument of soul,

            Wherewith she labours to impart

          Her efforts at some arduous goal;

            But fails to bring thy coarser art

              Beneath a fine control—

            Shall ever come a fairer day,

              When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

              To soar, where clearer suns illume,

            And fresher breezes play?

           Thou weak interpreter of heart,

             So impotent to tell the tale

           Of love's delight, of envy's smart,

             Of passion, and ambition's bale,

               Of pride that dwells apart—

             Shall I, in length of time, attain

               (By walking in the human ways,

                With love of Him, who made and sways)

             To ply thee, less in vain?

           If so, thou shalt be more to me

             Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

           With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,

             Despising gold, and sham renown;

               But truthful, kind, and free—

             Then come; though now a pithless quill,

               Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,—

               In time, thou shalt be taught to write,

             By patience, and good-will.

           "KING, and Father, gift and giver,

           God revealed in form of river,

           Issuing perfect, and sublime,

           From the fountain-head of time;

           "Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,

             Unapproached, untracked, unknown;

           Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth

             With the curtains of His throne;

           "From the throne of heaven descending,

           Glory, power, and goodness blending,

           Grant us, ere the daylight dies,

           Token of thy rapid rise,"

           Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,

             Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;

           Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing

             Foam on foam, and crest on crest!

           'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,

           Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:

           Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest

           For thy dedication feast!

           Follows him the loveliest maiden,

             Afric's thousand hills can show;

           White apparel'd, flower-laden,

             With the lotus on her brow.

           Votive maid, who hath espousal

           Of the river's high carousal;

           Twenty cubits if he rise,

           This shall be his bridal prize.

           Calm, and meek of face and carriage,

             Deigning scarce a quicker breath,

           Comes she to the funeral marriage,

             The betrothal of black death.

           Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,

           Nails whereon the onyx lingers,

           Clasped, as at a lover's tale,

           In the bosom's marble vale.

           Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,

             Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;

           Like a cloud of incense, breathing

             Round the column of a palm:

           Snood of lilies interweaveth

           (Giving less than it receiveth)

           Beauty of her clustered brow,

           Calmly bent upon us now.

           Through her dark hair, spread before

             See the western glory wane,

           As in groves of dim Cytorus,

             Or the bowers of Taprobane!

           See, the large eyes, lit by heaven,

           Brighter than the Sisters Seven,

           (Like a star the storm hath cowed)

           Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud.

           There the crystal tear refraineth,

             And the founts of grief are dry;

           "Father, Mother—none remaineth;

             All are dead; and why not I?"

           Yet, by God's will, heavenly beauty

           Owes to Heaven alone its duty;

           Off ye priests, who dare adjudge

           Bride, like this, to slime and sludge!

           When they tread the river's margent,

             All their mitred heads are bowed—

           What hath browned the ripples argent,

             Like the plume of thunder-cloud?

           Where yestreen the water slumbered,

           With a sickly crust encumbered,

           Leapeth now a roaring flood,