PÆan

upon seeing a portrait of Blake

Something moves in his dust,

Flame sleeps beneath the crust;

O whence had he those eyes

Lit with celestial surprise?

From what world blew that gust?

Are we near to Paradise?

Gather a chaplet of five stars

And the opalescent hue

Of the aureole brightness cast —

Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue, —

Round th' immaculate frosty moon,

Splintering light in glacial spars,

When November's loudening blast

Sweeps heaven's floor till burnished

More crystal than at August noon,

So we fit radiance may cast

Before his feet, around his head.

How visits he an earthly place,

Wanders among a mortal race?

How were his footsteps led

That still about his face

Lingers a ghostly trace

Of a secret influence shed

By a Hand the world denies,

In a land her most son flies,

As a gift upon him thrust

For an end he knoweth not,

Yet will shine because he must,

Shine and sing because he must

Reap a wrong he soweth not

Of contempt anger and distrust

For a world which boweth not

To the Flame which binds our dust.

Go net the moon, go snare the sun,

Set them upon his either hand!

Beneath his heels Leviathan

Roll your thick coils! His head be spanned

By rainbows tripled! Set a gem

At the Cross-scabbard of his sword

Whiter than lambwool or lilystem!

Place on his brow the diadem

Given the warrior of the Lord,

The crown-turrets of Jerusalem!