O'er sweet, perchance, yet made the quick blood start
To many a cheek mere glittering; rhymes left cold.
But through the gates of Ivory or of Horn
His vivid vision flocked, and who so bold
As to repulse with scorn
The shining troop because of shadowy birth.
Of bodiless passion, or light tinkling mirth?

But the true god-gift grows. Sweet, sweet, still sweet
As great Apollo's lyre, or Pan's plain reed,
His music flowed, but slowly he out-beat
His song to finer issues. Fingers fleet,
That trifled with the pipe-stops, shook grand sound
From the great organ's golden mouths anon.
A mellow-measured might, a beauty bound
(As Venus with her zone)
By that which shaped from chaos Earth, Air, Sky,
The unhampering restraint of Harmony.

Hysteric ecstasy, new fierce, now faint,
But ever fever-sick, shook not his lyre
With epileptic fervours. Sensual taint
Of satyr heat, or bacchanal desire,
Polluted not the passion of his song;
No corybantic clangor clamoured through
Its manly harmonies, as sane as strong;
So that the captious few
Found sickliness in pure Elysian balm,
And coldness in such high Olympian calm.