Classic Poem

One writes a book, and wins the admiring age —
One gives to it a deeper toned belief —
One makes the world his own applauded stage —
One holds its wealth in fief.

Each to his lot: unliterary mine;
Unholy, unheroic and unrich;
I can but hope there are some notes divine
Within its highest pitch.

I strike my fetters, and, above their clank,
Methinks I hear some better music ring;
And be it mine the scatter'd notes to rank,
Their harmony to sing.

I've long'd for nobler work; but now I seek
No higher plane than this to me assign'd;
And trust to snatch a cadence more unique
Than elsewhere I could find.