Insatiate vanity is restlessness
Of the infected spirit to proclaim
Itself; the insect dazzled by the flame,
Flits round the glory it would penetrate.
Thou, with ovations of the past elate,
Wert conscious of thy triumph's worthlessness;
The vain applause of those who saw, like thee,
Beauty still wedded to deformity;
Passion revealing nature it debased,
And virtue's impress weakened till effaced;
In fiery glare of contrast, good with ill
Joined in unnatural strife, and yielding still;
Abortive births of images and things
Shaped from unnatural imaginings.
What power urged thee in evening-life to prove
The Icarian wings, to dare ascents above,
And search the highest in his dwelling-place?—
To question the inscrutable, and receive
The award of retributive punishment?—
The Nemesis of truth; that thou shouldst show
Thyself and aspiration impotent;
Vainest of choughs that haunt the rocks below,
Whose summits they would reach; that thou shouldst leave
The record of thy weakness at the base
Of S HAKESPEARE'S everlasting monument?