Nurtured ’midst matchless scenes of wild sublimity,
Thou who wert reared with sternest truth in groves of song,
To thy bare arm the grasp is given to hurl the bolts
Of wrathful heaven. ’Tis thine, with thundering voice to shake
Creation to her centre, wakening love or rage,
And show thyself as angels or as demons are.
Yea, thou didst seem, as at the shrine I saw thee kneel,
With that bold brow of thine, like some creation bright
From higher spheres breathing thy inspiration there,
As if the Altar’s flame itself had lit thine eye