To count the gems, as yet unwrought,
But found beneath the soil;
The bright discoveries claim'd by thought,
As future crowns for toil.
He sees The Work his breath should warm
To life, from out the air:
The Shape of Love his soul should form,
Then leave its birthright there!
He sees the new Immortal rise
From her melodious sea;
The last descendant of the skies
For man to bend the knee—
He sees himself within your shrine
O hero gods of Fame!
And hears the praise that makes divine
The human holy name.
True to the hearts of men shall chime
The song their lips repeat;
When heroes chant the strain, sublime;
When lovers breathe it, sweet.
Lo, from the brief delusion given,
He starts, as through the bars
Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Heaven
And Thought alike—its stars.
Hark to the busy tramp below!
The jar of iron doors!
The gaoler's heavy footfall slow
Along the funeral floors!
The murmur of the crowd that round
The human shambles throng;
That muffled sullen thunder-sound—
The Death-cart grates along!
"Alas, so soon!—and must I die,"
He groan'd forth unresign'd;
"Flit like a cloud athwart the sky,
And leave no wrack behind!
"And yet my Genius speaks to me;
The Pythian fires my brain;
And tells me what my life should be;
A Prophet—and in vain!