Lord of the lofty brow, th' imperial eye, The proud patrician lip, that feeds on scorn;— Lord of the phantom thoughts, that, night and morn, Haunt my new-waken'd being; yet deny To its deep adjurations all reply; Lord of the fatal flame, — self-fed — self-born— Burning the temple that it should adorn, Yet shut as in a sepulchre for aye;— Lord of th' unfathom'd heart, — I watch the motion Of thy deep spirit with a patient hope That will not be subdu'd. — Like the great Ocean Which it so loves, it has the power to cope With the disturbing storms of this low world, And conquer all, — be but its banner once unfurl'd. London, 1818.
