Create the hero, and the world shall gaze,

Not unobservant, nor profanely cold.

Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase,

Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.

{68}

{68}

LXVIII.

To shape from infinite words and big-wombed thought,

The form that mimics Nature, yet transcends;

To shower beauty, from the sunbeam caught,

On one who, lofty, walks toward lofty ends;

To live within that which themselves create,

By sufferance swelling more exalted ranks,

With such communion still to recreate

The pauses of the world, whose iron harsh clanks,

In that most sweet society, how soon

To lose all sense, all memory of the earth;

Aye, this were godlike, and the priceless boon

Which Nature grudges prompters of true birth:

Holier, she bids them worship what inspires

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