Sure and exact,—the master’s quiet touch, Thus perfect, was his art; Ambitious, generous, sad, and loving much, Was his pain-haunted heart. To him, the blissful burthen of her love Did stern-browed Fortune give; In hell, in heaven, beneath life and above, Such souls as his must live. Who wears Fame’s Tyrian garb, as well must wear The heavy robe of Grief; Who bears aloft the palm, must also bear Hid woundings past belief. Both he did wear and bear, as well as most Of Earth’s soon-counted few That stand distinguished from the unknown host By having work to do. Souls seek their doom. A costly-freighted bark That sails a perilous sea, Rounds every bar, and goes down, in the dark At port,—e’en such was he. A classic shade,—he walks the unknown lands Death-silent and death-dim; But, like a noble Phidian marble, stands The memory of him.
The Dead Player
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