The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung
Has peopled earth with grace,
Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race;
But from its sleeping veins ne’er rose before
A shape of loftier name
Than his, who Glory’s...
|
Mark me how still I am!—The sound of feet |
Anonymous translation from the French |
The enthusiast brooding in his cell apart |