quote · Legacy record

I’ve thought, at gentle and ungentle hour, Of many an act and giant shape of power; Of the old kings with high exacting looks Sceptered and globed; of eagles on their rocks With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear, Answering the strain with downward drag austere; Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown, All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown; Then of cathedral with its priestly height, Seen from below at superstitions night; Of ghastly castle, that eternally Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea; And of all sunless subterranean deeps The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps; Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones, That stride, they say, over heroic bones; And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors Look like low dens, under precipitous shores; And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by, In seeming idleness, with stony eye, Sang at the morning’s touch, like poetry; And then of all the fierce and bitter fruit Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot, Of bruised right, and flourishing bad men, And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den; Brute force, and fury; and the devilish drouth Of the fool cannon’s ever-gaping mouth; And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray The sneering trumpet sends across the fray; And all which lights the people-thinning star That selfishness invokes—the horsed war, Panting along with many a bloody mane.

I’ve thought, at gentle and ungentle hour, Of many an act and giant shape of power; Of the old kings with high exacting looks Sceptered and globed; of eagles on their rocks With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear, Answering the strain with downward drag austere; Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown, All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown; Then of cathedral with its priestly height, Seen from below at superstitions night; Of ghastly castle, that eternally Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea; And of all sunless subterranean deeps The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps; Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones, That stride, they say, over heroic bones; And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors Look like low dens, under precipitous shores; And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by, In seeming idleness, with stony eye, Sang at the morning’s touch, like poetry; And then of all the fierce and bitter fruit Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot, Of bruised right, and flourishing bad men, And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den; Brute force, and fury; and the devilish drouth Of the fool cannon’s ever-gaping mouth; And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray The sneering trumpet sends across the fray; And all which lights the people-thinning star That selfishness invokes—the horsed war, Panting along with many a bloody mane.

Approximate author period: c. 1821 AD · industrial