I

Merlin , the great magician,
Quelled by a woman's hand,
Lies under the mighty oak-trees
In the forest of Broceliande.

II

The fever of life comes never
To fret his poet-brain:
He has slept a thousand years, and shall sleep
A thousand years again.

III

Dews falls soft on the turf there,
Young birds twitter above:
Merlin sleeps, and surely sleep
Is better than aught save love.

IV

Merlin sleeps, while the winters
Freeze, and the summers bloom,
And the old oaks whisper softly . . .
He is here till the Day of Doom.

V

O happy happy Merlin,
Afar in the forest deep!
To thee alone of the sons of men
Gave a woman the gift of sleep
L'Art a besoin ou de la solitude, ou de la misere, ou de la passion. — Alexandre Dumas, fils .

I

A Y , solitude, agony, passion!
This marvellous trinity brings
From afar the fierce fancies that flash on
The poet, who dreams and who sings
Wild wandering, happy and lonely,
Through stream-haunted woodlands serene,
There were days when his joyaunce was only
With Nature, sole goddess and queen.

II

But from loneliness, indolence, beauty,
We pass to the turmoil of life;
Sharp steel are the fetters of duty,
Bite keenly the acids of strife.
Ah, Genius, too free is thy charter
For the plausible Philistine's rules;
So the world makes the poet a martyr,
And the poet takes vengeance on fools.

III

Far sweetest of all that he utters
Are the snatches of passionate rhyme
Which come when a loving heart flutters
On his, in the royal summer-time.
Then the wine of his life hath bright foam on't,
Then joy is more puissant than tears,
Then a brief keen miraculous moment
Outweighs the slow torture of years