ANDRE CHENIER.

Within the prison's dreary girth,

The dismal night, before

That morn on which the dungeon Earth

Shall wall the soul no more,

There stood serenest images

Where doomed Genius lay,

The ever young Uranides

Around the Child of Clay.

On blacken'd walls and rugged floors

Shone cheerful, thro’ the night,

The stars — like beacons from the shores

Of the still Infinite.

From Ida to the Poet's cell

The Pain-beguilers stole;

Apollo tuned his silver shell

And Hebe brimm'd the bowl.

To grace those walls he needed nought

That tint or stone bestows;

Creation kindled from his thought:

He call'd — and gods arose.

The visions Poets only know

Upon the captive smiled,

As bright within those walls of woe

As on the sunlit child;

He saw the nameless, glorious things

Which youthful dreamers see,

When Fancy first with murmurous wings

O'ershadows bards to be;

Those forms to life spiritual given

By high creative hymn;

From music born — as from their heaven

Are born the Seraphim.

Forgetful of the coming day,

Upon the dungeon floor

He sate to count, poor child of clay,

The wealth of genius o'er;

To count the gems, as yet unwrought,

But found beneath the soil;

The bright discoveries claim'd by thought,

As future crowns for toil.

He sees The Work his breath should warm

To life, from out the air:

The Shape of Love his soul should form,

Then leave its birthright there!

He sees the new Immortal rise

From her melodious sea;

The last descendant of the skies

For man to bend the knee —

He sees himself within your shrine

O hero gods of Fame!

And hears the praise that makes divine

The human holy name.

True to the hearts of men shall chime

The song their lips repeat;

When heroes chant the strain, sublime;

When lovers breathe it, sweet.

Lo, from the brief delusion given,

He starts, as through the bars

Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Heaven

And Thought alike — its stars.

Hark to the busy tramp below!

The jar of iron doors!

The gaoler's heavy footfall slow

Along the funeral floors!

The murmur of the crowd that round

The human shambles throng;

That muffled sullen thunder-sound —

The Death-cart grates along!

“Alas, so soon!— and must I die,”

He groan'd forth unresign'd;

“Flit like a cloud athwart the sky,

And leave no wrack behind!

“And yet my Genius speaks to me;

The Pythian fires my brain;

And tells me what my life should be;

A Prophet — and in vain!

“O realm more wide, from clime to clime,

Than ever Caesar sway'd;

O conquests in that world of time

My grand desire survey'd!” —

Blood-red upon his loathing eyes

Now glares the gaoler's torch:

“Come forth, the day is in the skies,

The Death-cart at the porch!”

Pass on!— to thee the Parcae give

The fairest lot of all;—

In golden poet-dreams to live,

And ere they fade — to fall!

The shrine that longest guards a Name

Is oft an early tomb;

The Poem most secure of fame

Is — some wrong'd poet's doom!