THOUGH I have lived as one whose soul is

dead

Nor ever touched my heart-strings to awake.

Some harmony of love that else had fled

From where diviner semblance it might take;

Though I have scorned to hear when there has

called

The sterner voice within that bade me rise

And spurn the sloth that held my will enthralled

And veiled my loftier vision to the skies;

This of my slumbering spirit I entreat.

That when I fall and may not rise again.

Or ever this faint heart no more shall beat.

And I have lost the stimulant of pain.

That I some vestige of renown may leave—

Some flower to which posterity may cleave.