Page:The Colonnades a Poem.pdf/20

Failed hast thou, or succeeded,—hast thou striven,
Loved, hated, braved, regretted, envied, longed—
He is the monster consciousness of life.

Good master Critic, spare your venom here.
Pretender, egotist, he is that proud
He holds his follies sacred. His fond art
Is but a shadow of the thought he feels:
'Tis but a hatchet unto Hercules.
He looks men in the face and says these things.
His blood is fresh as Adam's. The proud sun
Hath lost no lustre, nor the court of death
Hlath lustre gained, nor miracle grown old.
And he must sing as on the desert hills
'Mid leagues of wilderness unknown to fame,
With none to listen, the hot lion roars,—
As behemoth upflouts the solid floods
To spray the tritons couching the rough main.