The Desolation of Eyam :: :: University of Virginia Library

He stood supreme in lofty genius, proud
In his soul's majesty; young, ardent, fired
With energy that never swayed the crowd;
The warmest votary that the muse inspired.
Through glorious realms he roamed, with feet untired;
And in high temples, with meek head, he bowed;
Drinking in inspiration, till the tide,
Like genial waters' flow, his outward life supplied.

113

II

On the high mountain's topmost peak he lay,
Feasting his fancy with delicious food;
Amid the lightning's terrible array,
And many-tongued thunders; where had stood
The glorious of old times; till he imbued
His spirit with their greatness—day by day,
Revelling in dreams of poesy divine,
When gods communed with man, the poet with the nine.

III

Then sprang the hope of an immortal name,
Kindling his spirit like Promethean fire;
His soul sprang upwards with the glorious aim,
And his hand, trembling, smote the answering wire.
He dwelt upon the triumphs of the lyre;
Upon the beautiful, till it became,
Whether in art or nature, life and light,
Endowing him with skill, and song's sublimest might.

114

IV

And, day by day, he proudly pondered o'er
The bliss of his high destiny;—to raise
Man from his reptile mind, and bid him soar,
Like the young eagle, in the heaven's full blaze;
He listened for the cordial voice of praise
To cheer him on—he heard the sullen roar
Of critic malice, mocking that warm zeal,
That fervent strength of song its spirit could not feel.

V

He pined, and pined, and over his pale cheek
The insidious crimson of the hectic stole:
His agile frame was wasted, bowed, and weak,
Before the subtle fever of his soul.
And, like one who has drained an opiate bowl,
His eye grew leaden, save when it would seek
Some inward vision; then his glorious mind
Lit up etherial flame, pure, rapturous, and refined.

115

VI

Still dwelt he 'neath a bright and classic sky;
And nature's marvels were around him spread;
The mountain's cloudy pinnacle, which high
Rears, in the vault of heaven, its splintered head:
The ocean's everlasting voice;—the red,
Fierce lightnings, and the thunder's stormy cry.
He sojourned in the lands renowned of old,
But now his soul was dim, his drooping fancy cold.

VII

Alas! the curse was on him. The unkind,
Corroding censure of the critic few,
Blasting his vision, sunk his ardent mind,
And, like the pestilent sirocco, slew.
He pined—the young, the generous, ardent, true;
Amid his high, but withered hopes, he pined;
And died within the noble land that gave
The aspiring genius fire, the broken heart a grave.