The golden weft the blind man wove so long,
Hath linked to immortality thy name.
His tale to many another’s lyre hath given
Its stirring echoes; and in every age
What story more than of thy woes hath riven
Their hearts who dream upon the poet’s page.
And though for long thou in the dust hast lain,
Still, still the visions of the mighty past,
The memory of thy struggle, and thy pain,
Thy god-built turrets,—these forever last.