XVI. PROPHETS WHO CANNOT SING.

Ponder, ye just, the scoffs that frequent go From forth the foe: 'The holders of the Truth in Verity Are people of a harsh and stammering tongue! The hedge-flower hath its song; Meadow and tree, Water and wandering cloud Find Seers who see, And, with convincing music clear and loud, Startle the adder-deafness of the crowd By tones, O Love, from thee. Views of the unveil'd heavens alone forth bring Prophets who cannot sing, Praise that in chiming numbers will not run; At least, from David until Dante, none, And none since him. Fish, and not swim? They think they somehow should, and so they try; But (haply 'tis they screw the pitch too high) 'Tis still their fates To warble tunes that nails might draw from slates. Poor Seraphim! They mean to spoil our sleep, and do, but all their gains Are curses for their pains!' Now who but knows That truth to learn from foes Is wisdom ripe? Therefore no longer let us stretch our throats Till hoarse as frogs With straining after notes Which but to touch would burst an organ-pipe. Far better be dumb dogs.