Genius Slumbering

He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,
That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.
And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there;
There are who still remember how he bore
Upward his daring pinions, till the air
Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.
He sleeps, — and yet, around the sightless eye
And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
x)eep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.
He will not sleep forever, but will rise
Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,
The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams,
His waken'd spirit streams.
Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,
Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.
He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take —
They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way,
When he forgot the contest — shall they take,
Now he renews the race, the victor's bay!
Still let them strive — when he collects his might,
He will assert his right.
The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,
Whose essence is ethereal; they may try
To darken and degrade it; it may rust
Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die;
And, when it wakens, it will send its fire
Intenser forth and higher.