Classic Poem

His was the master spirit; at his spells
The heart gave up its secrets: like the mount
Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet's rod,
Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that grey rock
On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards
Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal
On which his Genius rose; and, rooted there,
Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high,
Above the clouds, and changes of the world,
That Heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams
Have round its awful brows a glory shed
Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds
Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions
Beam light on that dim world they leave behind,
And while they spurn, adorn it; (7) so his spirit,
His " dainty spirit, " while it soared above
This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew
Treasures of light and loveliness.
Were " gentle S HAKSPEARE'S " features; this the eye
Whence Earth's least earthly mind looked out, and flashed
Amazement on the nations; this the brow
Where lofty thought majestically brooded,
Seated as on a throne; and these the lips
That warbled music stolen from heaven's own choir
When seraph-harps rang sweetest. But I tempt
A theme too high, and mount like Icarus,
On wings that melt before the blaze they worship.
Alas! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild!
Else should the eye, whose wondering gaze is fixed
Upon this breathing bust , awaken strains
Lofty as those the glance of Phaebus struck
From Memnon's ruined statue: the rapt soul
Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes
" Discourse most eloquent music. "