And Man, through imitative art, With clumsy tool and method crude, Copied these echoes as he might To soothe him in his solitude; And when that other sound was dumb His reed-notes quavered music rude. VI And as the gentler graces came To vivify barbaric night, So Poesy, with singing Lyre, Descended from Parnassian height, With constellations aureoled Her raiment wove of flowing light. VII And in Man’s heart a thrill leaped up; His eye was lit by prophet gleams; He sought the truth of When and How He voiced the lyrics of the streams; His beard was tossed, his locks were gray His soul beneath the spell of dreams. VIII Thus numbers came; and Poets lived To chant the glories of the Race; Their rhyme on limp papyrus roll Or etched on crumbling pillar’s base, Has long outlived the Kings they sung And conquered even Time and Space. IX Aye! vain the vaunt of Heroes; vain The deeds that once were thought sublime; And vain your Monarchs, briefly staged In tinselled royal pantomime; Their House was builded on the sands And they unworth a random rhyme. X Vain are the works of man; most vain His bubbled Glory, Aye! or Fame; More fragile than a last-year’s leaf Unnoticed of the sunset’s flame; And naught endures unless it stands Linked with a deathless Poet’s name. *FIVE* I How flourished then the lesser arts As man to manhood slowly grew? With blackened stick from ruddy fires That on his cave reflections threw, He scrawled the rock which sheltered him And thus the first rude picture drew. II And catching hints from Nature’s lore He squeezed his colors from the clay; Steeped leaf and bark, and dyed the skins That round about his dwelling lay; And, urged by vanity, his cheeks Were daubed with dash of pigments gay. III So, ever as the seasons died His mind expanded with his will; He saw the dry leaves touched with gold And grass grow tawny on the hill; Found etchings on the ruffled streams And marked the sunset’s hectic thrill. IV And dreaming thus, with defter skill He fast employed his nights and days, Spun magic webs of chequered lights And limned October’s purple haze; While women’s faces from his brush Fired, like wine, the se’er’s gaze. V Until at last was handed down Beyond the treasure-trove of Greece, Beyond the strain that Sappho sung And reveries of the Golden Fleece, The art of Titian, Rubens, Thal, And Tintoretto’s masterpiece. VI Thus, too, as man with curious eye Had noted outline, curve, and form, In toppling surge or lofty crag In woman’s bosom beating warm, In cloudy shapes revealed on high Intaglios of the wind and storm,— VII