Thomas Buchanan Read (1822–1872)

YE mighty masters of the song sublime,

Who, phantom-like, with large unwavering eyes,

Stalk down the solemn wilderness of Time,

Reading the mystery of the future skies;

O, scorn not earth because it is not heaven;

Nor shake the dust against us of your feet,

Because we have rejected what was given!

Still let your tongues the wondrous theme repeat!

Though ye be friendless in this solitude,

Quick-wingéd thoughts from many an unborn year,

God-sent, shall feed ye with prolific food,

Like those blest birds which fed the ancient seer;

And Inspiration, like a wheeléd flame,

Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame!