Henry Alford

Sonnet LXXVI. Arion.

Not song, nor beauty, nor the wondrous power Of the clear sky, nor stream, nor mountain glen, Nor the wide Ocean, turn the hearts of men To love, nor give the world--embracing dower Of inward gentleness:--up from the bed Blest by chaste beauty, men have risen to blood, And life hath perished in the flowery wood, And the poor traveller beneath starlight bled. Thus that musician, in his wealth of song Pouring his numbers, even with the sound Swimming around them, would the heartless throng Have thrust unto his death; but with a bound Spurning the cursed ship, he sought the wave, And Nature's children did her poet save.