Being still the staff of exile: yea, as when

The voice poured forth on us

Was even of Æschylus,

And his one word great as the crying of ten,

Crying in men's ears of wrath toward wrong,

Of love toward right immortal, sanctified with song.

32.

Him too whom none save one before him ever

Beheld, nor since hath man again beholden,

Whom Dante seeing him saw not, nor the giver

Of all gifts back to man by time withholden,

Shakespeare—him too, whom sea-like ages sever,

As waves divide men's eyes from lights upholden

To landward, from our songs that find him never,

Seeking, though memory fire and hope embolden—

Him too this one song found,

And raised at its sole sound

Up from the dust of darkling dreams and olden

Legends forlorn of breath,

Up from the deeps of death,

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