Authentic son of the lyre-bearing god.
Fresh portals, untrod pleasaunces, new ways
In Art's great Palace, shrined in Nature's heart,
Sought the young singer, and his limpid lays,
O'er sweet, perchance, yet made the quick blood start
To many a cheek mere glittering; rhymes left cold.
But through the gates of Ivory or of Horn
His vivid vision flocked, and who so bold
As to repulse with scorn
The shining troop because of shadowy birth.