SongII

3 0 00

Song

II

The Bent of Nature

How the might of Nature sways

All the world in ordered ways,

How resistless laws control

Each least portion of the whole⁠—

Fain would I in sounding verse

On my pliant strings rehearse.

Lo, the lion captive ta’en

Meekly wears his gilded chain;

Yet though he by hand be fed,

Though a master’s whip he dread,

If but once the taste of gore

Whet his cruel lips once more,

Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes,

With one roar his bonds he breaks,

And first wreaks his vengeful force

On his trainer’s mangled corse.

And the woodland songster, pent

In forlorn imprisonment,

Though a mistress’ lavish care

Store of honeyed sweets prepare;

Yet, if in his narrow cage,

As he hops from bar to bar,

He should spy the woods afar,

Cool with sheltering foliage,

All these dainties he will spurn,

To the woods his heart will turn;

Only for the woods he longs,

Pipes the woods in all his songs.

To rude force the sapling bends,

While the hand its pressure lends;

If the hand its pressure slack,

Straight the supple wood springs back.

Phoebus in the western main

Sinks; but swift his car again

By a secret path is borne

To the wonted gates of morn.

Thus are all things seen to yearn

In due time for due return;

And no order fixed may stay,

Save which in th’ appointed way

Joins the end to the beginning

In a steady cycle spinning.