Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/175

O Rhyme, no bounds thy magic knows!
And when at tournaments with prose
Thou joustest, human words disclose
All their latent mysteries;
'Tis thou that mak'st all things to shine,
Spread table, tankard, fruit and wine,
Man's face that shadows the divine,
And woman's lustrous eyes!

Thou limnest the acanthus leaves
Of graceful curves, the wheaten sheaves,
And vine-sprays plucked in autumn eves
Which the wild Bacchantes wear,
And carvest as no goldsmith can
The cloven-footed hairy Pan,
On sides of brimming cups that man
Rightly deems the charm for care.

Thou wakest up the merry din
Of fiddle and of violin,
Until the organ swelling, win
The heart to loftier melodies,
Thou lendest life to hautboy shrill,
And tourterelle with dove-like trill;
O hark! that treble weeping still!
Thou givest it these sympathies.

Thanks to thee, the poet's song
The cannon's thunder can prolong,
And give the glave that rights the wrong
A lightning fiercely glancing;
Thou mak'st the axe more sharp and fell,
The buckler round more proudly swell,
And tall plumes wave 'mid shot and shell
On warriors proudly prancing!