Title:
The Lost Muse and The Lost Muse Found
Accession#:
2002.01.02
Pubication Date:
1905
Object ID:
KL—0081
Collection:
Koreshan Pamphlets
Additional Notes & Full Text:
"The Lost Muse" Notes -- (p.3) - THIS little poem is an early "fragment" written among the ruins of Old Rome some time during the year 1890, and soon after the writer arrived
at this locality for his first visit.. (p.4) - A son takes pleasure in dedicating this little fancy to his father Dr. Cyrus R.Teed, (Koresh) on the occasion of his sixty-sixth birthday with a wish for the continued felicities of a ripe age and great work done.
at this locality for his first visit.. (p.4) - A son takes pleasure in dedicating this little fancy to his father Dr. Cyrus R.Teed, (Koresh) on the occasion of his sixty-sixth birthday with a wish for the continued felicities of a ripe age and great work done.
Author:
Teed, Douglas Arthur
Summary:
From the inside cover:
"This little poem is an early "fragment" written among the ruins of Old Rome some time during the year 1890, and soon after the writer arrived at this locality for his first visit."
There are two pamphlets —— the first, has the poem "The Lost Muse" and the second poem, "The Lost Muse Found" which was written in response to a suggestion by William F. Blackman, president of Rollins College. (See Copy Notes on 'Custom' tab. and see Notes tab for peom text)
The former poem, 'The Lost ^Muse,' hav—
ing been sent to
"President Wm. F. "Blackman, Pb.D.,
of 'Rollins College; that gentleman wrote
in reply: "I find your poem charming in
substance and style. It suggests Shelley to
me. But why not write of the ' 'Muse Found?''
Such having been my intention "some time,"
I immediately took paper and pencil and wrote
this forty line poem, "The Lost Muse Found,"
in thirty minutes. In rewriting the poem for
press the day following, I made no changes in
the text. —The cAuthor.
"This little poem is an early "fragment" written among the ruins of Old Rome some time during the year 1890, and soon after the writer arrived at this locality for his first visit."
There are two pamphlets —— the first, has the poem "The Lost Muse" and the second poem, "The Lost Muse Found" which was written in response to a suggestion by William F. Blackman, president of Rollins College. (See Copy Notes on 'Custom' tab. and see Notes tab for peom text)
The former poem, 'The Lost ^Muse,' hav—
ing been sent to
"President Wm. F. "Blackman, Pb.D.,
of 'Rollins College; that gentleman wrote
in reply: "I find your poem charming in
substance and style. It suggests Shelley to
me. But why not write of the ' 'Muse Found?''
Such having been my intention "some time,"
I immediately took paper and pencil and wrote
this forty line poem, "The Lost Muse Found,"
in thirty minutes. In rewriting the poem for
press the day following, I made no changes in
the text. —The cAuthor.
Category:
8: Communication Artifact
Notes:
[Following are the complete text of both poems]
THE LOST MUSE
While yet unformed, and in the lap of youth,
w With loving hands to smooth my childhood's way,
Came glowing Hope, and ever—growing Love
For that exalted force which men call Truth;
Something within (although 1 could not name)
Spurring to action presumptuous thought—
Ay, whispering, with piercing breath, "Onion!"
No heights in earth, in all that classic path
Where centuries of fame by mortals wrought
Are draped in wreaths and bear the costly urns,
Too high for thee to climb where honor leads!
So spake my soul in oft recurring speech—
Though blind belief replied in smiling faith,
Reflection, that endless plain where Reason feeds,
Bore fruit of most peculiar pith.
Reason, of youth's credulity questioned oft,
How master Art outside her classic halls?
How grow a plum in soil prepared for sage?
Draw strength, of ripeness full, from fiber soft?
So yearned my soul for Athenian bread,
Ay, hungered it for Caesar's resting—place—
Where Plutarch's fame and Angelo's angels stand
With faces wrapt beneath the Alban range—
Where genius sleeps and every gentle grace.
Years passed by in prayer, a new day came,
My steps I found, indeed, where Tiber flows;
Beside the shrines of ancient art,
Through arches wasted by devouring time,
O'er mounds and tombs (inscribed by whom, who
knows?)
By shattered pillar and encrusted urn,
Walked on and pondered in the after—glow.
' Thou temple of earlier times,' I cried—
' Where empire sat enthroned, and heroes died !
Thou seven holy mounts where fountains flow
Amid a thousand forms from marble hewn;
Where are the gifts my earnest prayers did claim?
The tongue inspired, the pencil charmed to limn
The rarer glories of transcendent day,
The slanting shadows on the Roman plain,
The winged thought of man or flight of bird ? '
0! now I wend and falter on the way
Where, in fond visions, ardent footsteps flew!
My thoughts are vague, my pencil's lines are dim
Beside the wonders of this rich decay—
The Muse so courted now hath flown away!
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The Lost Muse Found
Blinded by over much omnipotence
My soul had lost the semblance of its muse;
That nameless creature of the inner self,
Guide, leader, prophet, teacher of the soul;
That very essence which had the man inspired
To essay a pilgrimage to Rome—
And there to draw communion with the great of eld,
The buried kings of primal man.
Beneath the shadow of the Caesar's tomb
My selfhood rested with its inner sight
And saw its own and secret soul, asearch,
Deep—hooded, solitary, and by the shades engulfed
Amid the ruin of the ancient world.
Deep pity took upon me hold,
And of the self's own plight commiseration sore:
Until the veil of interior tears
Seemed the leaden shower of Fall
Across the archways of those halls of stone.
And so beholding, spell—bound, separate—
Yet the two of one—
The "I" awatch upon the steps of "Me"—
But of the former no out—helping hand
Could so extend, or act suggest a way
To gain the angel—instinct which had flown.
The passions of God's high creature deals not with time;
Nor could this soul's quest be by hours denned;
But all things end, e'en do all shadows pass,
And thus new light shines in one's looking—glass.
So happened, there, a rift of light to shine
High on the shadow of the past;
And there, apart, my soul was in the light;
The painter had o'ertook his muse at last!
And then I saw that which had seemed without
Was as a shape reflected from within—
And that to seek distinction far away
Was but to lead the groping soul to sin—
That here within the much or little life
Grows always—that which highest grows is best.
This 'best' abstracted from the mass,
Then, sir critic, I tell thee, naught is left!
Estero Island,
Dec. 28th, 1905.
THE LOST MUSE
While yet unformed, and in the lap of youth,
w With loving hands to smooth my childhood's way,
Came glowing Hope, and ever—growing Love
For that exalted force which men call Truth;
Something within (although 1 could not name)
Spurring to action presumptuous thought—
Ay, whispering, with piercing breath, "Onion!"
No heights in earth, in all that classic path
Where centuries of fame by mortals wrought
Are draped in wreaths and bear the costly urns,
Too high for thee to climb where honor leads!
So spake my soul in oft recurring speech—
Though blind belief replied in smiling faith,
Reflection, that endless plain where Reason feeds,
Bore fruit of most peculiar pith.
Reason, of youth's credulity questioned oft,
How master Art outside her classic halls?
How grow a plum in soil prepared for sage?
Draw strength, of ripeness full, from fiber soft?
So yearned my soul for Athenian bread,
Ay, hungered it for Caesar's resting—place—
Where Plutarch's fame and Angelo's angels stand
With faces wrapt beneath the Alban range—
Where genius sleeps and every gentle grace.
Years passed by in prayer, a new day came,
My steps I found, indeed, where Tiber flows;
Beside the shrines of ancient art,
Through arches wasted by devouring time,
O'er mounds and tombs (inscribed by whom, who
knows?)
By shattered pillar and encrusted urn,
Walked on and pondered in the after—glow.
' Thou temple of earlier times,' I cried—
' Where empire sat enthroned, and heroes died !
Thou seven holy mounts where fountains flow
Amid a thousand forms from marble hewn;
Where are the gifts my earnest prayers did claim?
The tongue inspired, the pencil charmed to limn
The rarer glories of transcendent day,
The slanting shadows on the Roman plain,
The winged thought of man or flight of bird ? '
0! now I wend and falter on the way
Where, in fond visions, ardent footsteps flew!
My thoughts are vague, my pencil's lines are dim
Beside the wonders of this rich decay—
The Muse so courted now hath flown away!
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The Lost Muse Found
Blinded by over much omnipotence
My soul had lost the semblance of its muse;
That nameless creature of the inner self,
Guide, leader, prophet, teacher of the soul;
That very essence which had the man inspired
To essay a pilgrimage to Rome—
And there to draw communion with the great of eld,
The buried kings of primal man.
Beneath the shadow of the Caesar's tomb
My selfhood rested with its inner sight
And saw its own and secret soul, asearch,
Deep—hooded, solitary, and by the shades engulfed
Amid the ruin of the ancient world.
Deep pity took upon me hold,
And of the self's own plight commiseration sore:
Until the veil of interior tears
Seemed the leaden shower of Fall
Across the archways of those halls of stone.
And so beholding, spell—bound, separate—
Yet the two of one—
The "I" awatch upon the steps of "Me"—
But of the former no out—helping hand
Could so extend, or act suggest a way
To gain the angel—instinct which had flown.
The passions of God's high creature deals not with time;
Nor could this soul's quest be by hours denned;
But all things end, e'en do all shadows pass,
And thus new light shines in one's looking—glass.
So happened, there, a rift of light to shine
High on the shadow of the past;
And there, apart, my soul was in the light;
The painter had o'ertook his muse at last!
And then I saw that which had seemed without
Was as a shape reflected from within—
And that to seek distinction far away
Was but to lead the groping soul to sin—
That here within the much or little life
Grows always—that which highest grows is best.
This 'best' abstracted from the mass,
Then, sir critic, I tell thee, naught is left!
Estero Island,
Dec. 28th, 1905.
Object Name:
Poem
Subcategory:
Documentary Artifact
People:
Sargent, Paul
Publisher:
[Guiding Star Publishing House]
Publication Place:
[Estero, Fl.]
Subjects:
Poetry
Teed, Douglas Arthur
Teed, Douglas Arthur
PDF File Attachment: