'Twas then it shone the brightest on thy brow,
Like the last flickerings of an earthly flame—
Yes, thy brain harass'd by deep toil, became
With all its fire, a tenant of the tomb,
And dim is now thine eye, Belov'd of Fame!
Thy cheek is pale—thy lip without perfume—
And there thou liest—the child of Genius—and its doom.
Like the proud eagle soaring to the skies,
Intent "the topmost arch" of heaven to scale,
When heeding naught that would oppose its rise,