The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 16, February, 1859 by Various
page 83 of 299 (27%)
page 83 of 299 (27%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
The Poet's heart attends your buskined feet, Your lofty strains, Till earth's rude touch dissolves that madness sweet, And life remains: Life that is something while the senses heed The spirit's call, Life that is nothing when our grosser need Engulfs it all. And thou, young hero of this mimic scene, In whose high breast A genius greater than thy life hath been Strangely comprest! Wear'st thou those glories draped about thy soul Thou dost present? And art thou by their feeling and control Thus eloquent? 'Tis with no feigned power thou bind'st our sense, No shallow art; Sure, lavish Nature gave thee heritance Of Hamlet's heart! Thou dost control our fancies with a might So wild, so fond, We quarrel, passed thy circle of delight, With things beyond; |
|