Stones from The Quarry | ||
AN ASPIRATION.
O thou grand Lyre of the Muses, haveOr have I not—is it a vain conceit
That I have—stirred by your great borrowed heat
Of inspiration, tried a chord that gave
New tones, and new-attunèd ears doth crave?
A sound went forth, and echoes strange did meet
With grand reverbs; o'er Time and Space they fleet
Into Eternity, beyond the Grave!
And I have shrunk from them. My petty cry
(As when, oppressed with mountain-solitude,
Echoes reduplicate and magnify)
Startles strange sounds that Evil bode, as Good.
Little mine ear receives; all's mystery;
So much more that World-echo doth include!
Stones from The Quarry | ||