 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
160
GENIUS BOUND.
Durham,—I well discern thy noble thought,This pleading epic builded up of clay,
This new-created clod, so cold and gray
Yet so mindsodden and with feeling fraught,
To exquisite perfection slowly wrought
By thy true zeal through many a night and day:
Still must it be as it hath ever been,
Genius is bound; his eagle wings are caught
In that old serpent's coil; his hands are seen
Powerless at his side; his glances keen
Proclaim a quiet holy baffled strength,—
No vulgar struggle with constraining fate,
No concentrated wilfulness of hate,
But calm resolve to soar aloft at length.
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