No more, O never now,
Lord of the lofty and the tranquil brow
Whereon nor snows of time
Have fall’n, nor wintry rime,
Shall men behold thee, sage and mage sublime. 
Once, in his youth obscure,
The maker of this verse, which shall endure
By splendour of its theme that cannot die,
Beheld thee eye to eye,
And touched through thee the hand
Of every hero of thy race divine,
Ev’n to the sire of all the laurelled line,
The sightless wanderer on the Ionian strand,
With soul as healthful as the poignant brine,
Wide as his skies and radiant as his seas,
Starry from haunts of his Familiars nine,
Glorious Maeonides. 
Yea, I beheld thee, and behold thee yet: 
Thou hast forgotten, but can I forget? 
The accents of thy pure and sovereign tongue,
Are they not ever goldenly impressed
On memory’s palimpsest? 
I see the wizard locks like night that hung,
I tread the floor thy hallowing feet have trod;
I see the hands a nation’s lyre that strung,
The eyes that looked through life and gazed on God.

The seasons change, the winds they shift and veer;
The grass of yesteryear
Is dead; the birds depart, the groves decay: 
Empires dissolve and peoples disappear: 
Song passes not away. 
Captains and conquerors leave a little dust,
And kings a dubious legend of their reign;
The swords of Caesars, they are less than rust: 
The poet doth remain. 
Dead is Augustus, Maro is alive;
And thou, the Mantuan of our age and clime,
Like Virgil shalt thy race and tongue survive,
Bequeathing no less honeyed words to time,
Embalmed in amber of eternal rhyme,
And rich with sweets from every Muse’s hive;
While to the measure of the cosmic rune
For purer ears thou shalt thy lyre attune,
And heed no more the hum of idle praise
In that great calm our tumults cannot reach,
Master who crown’st our immelodious days
With flower of perfect speech.

DEDICATION OF “THE DREAM OF MAN”

TO LONDON, MY HOSTESS

City that waitest to be sung,—­
  For whom no hand
To mighty strains the lyre hath strung
  In all this land,
Though mightier theme the mightiest ones
  Sang not of old,
The thrice three sisters’ godlike sons
  With lips of gold,—­
Till greater voice thy greatness sing
  In loftier times,
Suffer an alien muse to bring
  Her votive rhymes.

Yes, alien in thy midst am I,
  Not of thy brood;
The nursling of a norland sky
  Of rougher mood: 
To me, thy tarrying guest, to me,
    ’Mid thy loud hum,
Strayed visions of the moor or sea
    Tormenting come. 
Above the thunder of the wheels
    That hurry by,
From lapping of lone waves there steals
    A far-sent sigh;