Though here and there a man is left Whose iron thread eludes the shears, The martyr with his bosom cleft Is dead these seven heavy years. Does he survive whose tongue was slit, To slake some envy of a king's? Sportive silver cried from it Before the savage cut the strings. The rack has crumpled up the limb Stretched immediate to fly; Never ask the end of him Stubborn to outstare the sky. Assuming an heroic mask, He stands a tall derisive tree, While servile to the speckled task We move devoted hand and knee. It is no virtue, but a fault Thus to breathe ignoble air, Suffering unclean assault And insult dubious to bear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 6. HYMN TO CHEERFULNESS by MARK AKENSIDE DAWN AT LEXINGTON by KATHARINE LEE BATES SELF-COMMUNING by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE A FADING PHANTOM by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |