Is this the best art offers to her slave--
A distant court, a solitary throne,
A far-felt power that makes itself alone
Whene'er the sceptre is upraised to wave?
What if the royal hermit's heart may crave
The human blessings that are daily strown
Around the peasant's glimmering chimney-stone?
Are these such things as kings may never have?
Alas! must even love's pinion never dare
O'erpass one dreaded limit; never come
Within the chambers which the heart calls home?
Is genius nothing but an awing glare;
Loved by the homage of a frightened stare,
Mourned by a column in a marble dome?