The Iola Register

Clad in purple, he sat in his palace,
A powerful king, in the days of old:
They brought him wine in a beautiful chalice
Whose gems were crusted in beaten gold.

"Who hath jewels like mine?" demanded
The boastful monarch; and straightway then
Through his men-at-arms, who at once disbanded,
Came one, who looked like the Man of men.

He came in proudly, and held up a jewel,
Held it with both hands over his head.
Its light was lovely, its light was cruel;
But, cruel or lovely, the light was red.

It shot out sparkles; it was a Glory,
A terrible Splendor, a heart of Fire;
No one light like it, in song or story,
For who had that had his soul's desire!

Its brightness shone over land and ocean,
Far-reaching—a dazzling, blinding light;
Creating wonder and strange devotion,
A sense of Love, and the sense of Might.

"Who hath jewels like thine?" demanded
This Man of men. "Look at my great gem!
It grew where the rivers are golden-sanded,
With others—it does not compare with them!

"I say to thee, monarch, it is a token
Of the Masters, that ever on earth remain;
And if by chance any part is broken,
It is nothing less, but is whole again."

Thus in Gallic Latin—your Southey will show it—
Two hundred and fifty years ago,
Wrote the great de Thou, of an early poet;
But what the meaning, he did not know.

I know his secret, without his learning;
I have divined it, by my deep art;
It is only dark to the undiscerning—
This parable of the Poet's Heart!

—R. H. Stoddard, in Scribner for April.