Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PRELUDE, by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PRELUDE, by                    
First Line: My song is born of rivalry. Cross time
Last Line: Save where I lift, and purify, and bless!
Subject(s): Art & Artists; Nature; Singing & Singers; Time


MY song is born of rivalry. Cross Time,
So leaden winged when he should speed apace --
So swift when, breathing some enchanted clime,
Or spellbound by the magic of some face,
We fain would fetter him -- cross Time has left
One golden scene behind for near a year,
One scene that would not linger, yet no theft
From Memory's store shall make it disappear:
A pleasant scene it was, a fairy spot,
A happy hour when I was one of three.
Tho' "two be company while three are not"
That homely saw was falsified, for we
Held sweet communion mid delightful strife.
The Muses we discussed; each bowed to one,
And found therein the solace of a life,
So for this pleaded as a central sun
Round which the rest revolved. One lively friend
Claimed excellence for Painting, that appealed
To sight, the queen of senses. Artists blend,
She urged, Earth's beauty with the grace concealed
Within, and fusing them in lovely form
Fix fleeting charms that many scarce behold --
Interpret Nature, and the multiform
Complexities of human life unfold --
Obliquely teach, and silently impress,
And by the witchery of Colour's spell
Wake up the taste, the truth, the tenderness
That sleep within us all. She pleaded well,
So well that seemingly she fanned the flame
That fired the friend beside her (both were fair)
Who worshipped Music and had won a name.
In tremulous tones she asked what could compare
With harmony, that served a subtle sense
More delicate than vision, more refined?
What rouse more surely love, awe, reverence?
What stronger lever to uplift the mind?
What better balsam for an aching core?
What truer tonic? 'Tis a certain key
Whereby the spirit's many-chambered store
May be unlocked, and prisoned wealth set free:
How feeling, fancy, memory, even will
Unbar their bolts to married tune and time!
How a rapt audience yields responsive thrill
To its enchanter! and how hearts that chime
With his, divine the meaning of each mood!
And then both turned to me who sang the praise
Of Poetry. My Muse all worthy stood
Small chance when I confronted their quick gaze
And smart replies: and yet I proved her strong,
Strongest, methinks, in this, that human thought,
And feeling, too, perchance, sustain least wrong
Thro' her exacter voice obscuring naught.
The Painter in his silence scarce atones
By fine suggestion for his impotence
To limn the full effect of Nature's tones,
That charm and teach thro' vocal eloquence:
While the Musician, pouring out his heart,
What can he language to a kindred soul
But vague idea and feeling? what impart
Save as an outlined fructifying whole?
At utmost he recounts a thrilling tale
That all enjoy but none quite comprehend;
Whose forms and scenes and acts in true detail
Live not in those who fondest audience lend.
The Poet only in his verbal might
Transmits exactly, and completely tells:
Let him bewitch the reader's inward sight
By deft word-colouring, and he excels
The Painter-champion -- let his verse have grace
Of rhythm, cadence, and fine subtle shades
Of harmony, and the Musician's place
Is scarce as high. But no! the rival maids
Linked hands in laughing league to overthrow
My lofty claim -- and hence these various rhymes;
A poor attempt to make the scorners know
That Poetry, if rich in hues and chimes
Of verbiage, by virtue of her power
Unique of full transmission, wins the palm.
We pledged each other that the trysting bower,
Which shed around us then such fragrant balm,
Should circle us anew a twelvemonth hence,
When I should read my poems: and perchance
This failure will at least yield evidence
Of what success might prove; and so the lance,
Unsheathed in loyal battle for my Muse,
Tho' splintered may win honour for her name.
Meanwhile, methinks, I hardly need excuse
This humble volume tho' it earn no fame:
The Painter vaunts the labours of a year
And welcomes critics to his studio;
Musicians covet that the world should hear
Their tuneful work, and praise or blame bestow.
Deem this my "private view," my "open night,"
Or what you will, but hold it true no less,
That I have failed, tho' even I delight,
Save where I lift, and purify, and bless!





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