Where dim the ethereal eye, no art, though clear As golden star in morning's amber springs, Can pierce the fogs of low imaginings: Painting and sculpture are a mockery mere. Where dull to deafness is the hearing ear, Vain is the poet. Nought but earthly things Have credence. When the soaring skylark sings How shall the stony statue strain to hear? Open the deaf ear, wake the sleeping eye, And Lo, musicians, painters, poets--all Trooping instinctive, come without a call! As winds that where they list blow evermore; As waves from silent deserts roll to die In mighty voices on the peopled shore.