I

H E thought from others' books, and strove
To blend philosophies with art,
While from their threaded webs he wove
Compounded wisdom, which, apart,
Laid up with phrases quaint and terse,
He fused in scientific mould,
Shaping material into verse,
By discipline severe controlled.

II

Morality on high he hung,
Subject for Art's dissecting knife;
Forgot that passion's fiery tongue
Awoke the marble into life.
Truth's saws he set as in a frame,
Clipped thoughts in tortuous shreds transposed;
Simplicity an art became,
And brevity in darkness closed

III

Man he anatomised, and found
The puppet of machinery wrought,
By life and outward influence, wound
By chance, or destiny, or nought;
The discipline sublimest taught
By stern adversity, that wakes
In man the Promethean thought
That grasps the fetters which it breaks;

IV

The lessons drawn from others' woes,
The endurance proved within, the strife
That breaks the demigod's repose,
To wrestle with gaunt Want for life;
The self-reproach its gall that feeds,
The love, defiance, and the pride
That hides the inner wound which bleeds,
Such pangs august to him denied.

V

The imaginative power that springs
From the great passion of the soul,
That soothes our human sufferings,
Subdued and chained by its control,
To him was dead: his bloodless fiend
Dared sympathies unfelt deride;
Behind its show of puppets screened
The impotence it could not hide.

VI

His heart repellent never loved;
To him the Angel's lips were sealed,
The world of woman's power unproved,
The passion in its fount congealed;
The trust, the sympathy, the love,
That merges human self, till men
Gain glimpses of their state above,
Fled from him, ne'er to come again.

VII

He watched the flowing tears, and weighed
The salt within them as they fell;
He heard the sobbings that forbade
The heart its agonies to tell:
Each look and gesture conned, with eyes
Considerate, the pen he took,
And noted down the outward guise
Of passions in his lifeless book.

VIII

Age stole upon him, but he kept
Unruffled the crystalline flame,
The spirit that nor felt nor wept,
That knew the feelings but by name.
Imagination hid her ray,
And left the alien uncrowned,
To coin from images of clay,
With a false stamp, the god unfound.

IX

He told the truth that in him dwelt,
The song of art, staid, calm, and pure;
The quickening flame within unfelt,
That gives the throbbings which endure.
Life passed, her secrets unconfessed,
Her grandest chords by him untried;
He wore a star upon his breast,
And painted shadows till he died.

X

There is a Spirit watching here
O'er mightiest poets; they depart,
But their songs shed like blossoms sear,
Are gathered by the reverent heart:
Their prophecies all vainly spoken,
Are heard at last, and truth atones;
The ruins of false Idols broken
Become the footsteps to their thrones.