XI

High priest of Homer, not elect in vain, Deep trumpets blow before thee, shawms behind Mix music with the rolling wheels that wind Slow through the labouring triumph of thy train: Fierce history, molten in thy forging brain, Takes form and fire and fashion from thy mind, Tormented and transmuted out of kind: But howsoe'er thou shift thy strenuous strain, Like Tailor[1] smooth, like Fisher[2] swollen, and now Grim Yarrington[3] scarce bloodier marked than thou, Then bluff as Mayne's[4] or broad-mouthed Barry's[5] glee; Proud still with hoar predominance of brow And beard like foam swept off the broad blown sea, Where'er thou go, men's reverence goes with thee.