 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
35
HOMER.
Thou poor and old, yet ever rich and young,Ye sunless eyeballs, in all wisdom bright,
Travel-stain'd feet, and home-unwelcomed tongue;
That for a pauper's pittance strayed, and sung,
Where after-times the frequent acolyte
Track'd those faint steps with worship,—at what time
And where, thou untaught master, did the strings
Of thine immortal harp echo sublime
The rage of heroes, and the toil of kings?
Uncertain shadow of a mystic name!
The world's dead praise, as Hellas' living shame,
There is a mystery brooding on thy birth,
That thee its own each willing soil may claim;
Thy fatherland is all the flatter'd earth.
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