II. “Why do I seem to sit upon a cloud, Wearing the crimson mantle of the sun, Delighted when the wind-god shrieks aloud, And raptured when the midnight thunder-gun Tells where the nimble-footed lightnings run? Shall I not try Ere age draw nigh Some world-enticing poem to unshroud?
III. “Why do the bygone years, with accents cold, Call to me through the darkness from their grave, Till thinking on their dowry, tears are rolled Down my wan cheeks? I think of all they gave, And all they stole from me, their fool and slave. Earnestly I, Henceforth will try To sublimate my life to purest gold.
IV. “And often while I dally with the Night, Running my fingers through her raven hair, There floats up to my shocked and tearful sight An angel’s face, transformed with pain and care O, maiden! long beloved, I see you there, But you and I May never try To braid our love into a zone of light.
V. “The organ of the Universe is played By bards who strike the keys with master sweep, Upon its music-waves I float, afraid, Yet joyous, doubtful if to smile or weep, And haunted by its sea of sound in sleep, I wake to try A purpose high— To earn the poet’s crown before I fade.
VI. “O, Heaven! while my spirit gladly sings, Shape her vague tremblings to some useful end, And purify my strange imaginings, That when the better years which hither tend, Pass on, I may be called Man’s poet-friend, Thus will I try, Before I die To shake the earth-dregs from my soaring wings.”
VII. So sang a poet by the harping sea, And thick as white shells strewn upon the beach, Fancies came thronging to him, wild and free, And bade him limn their airy forms in speech: But still he only sang with aimless reach, “All things do cry Pilgrim, try! Thrill the tame world with sun-lit poesy.”
VIII. Years rolled away, and by the sea-licked shore The moonbeams quivered on a lonely mound; The pilgrim-poet’s turbulence was o’er, And that secluded spot was holy ground; For he with songs of wondrous love had crowned Insulted Right; And pure and bright His verse illumed the sorrows of the poor.
IX. He left behind him, though he knew it not, A trail of glory on the world’s highway, And loving fingers now denote the spot Where he was wont to build the witching lay, And champions of mind, admiring, say, “Grandly he tried, Before he died, To teach dull earth the majesty of thought.”