He was a god descended from the skies
To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
And consecrate a hope he could not save;
For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.
Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
But all do pity him, though none despise.
He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.
He ask'd for tears,—and they were tinged with fire;
He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.
He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim,
And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
He sang the songs of all the world's desire,—
He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!