George Meredith

Deepest and keenest of our time who pace The variant by-paths of the uncertain heart In undiscerned mysterious ways apart, Thou huntest on the Assyrian monster’s trace: That sweeping-pinioned Thing—with human face, Poor Man, with wings hoof-weighted lest they start To try the breeze above this human mart, In heights pre-occupied of a god-like race. Among the stammering sophists of the age Thy words are absolute, thy vision true; No hand but thine is found to fit the gage The Titan, Shakespeare, to a whole world threw. Till thou hadst boldly to his challenge sprung, No rival had he in our English tongue.