Classic Poem

From the beginning, when was aught but stones
For English Prophets? Starved not Chatterton?
Was Keats bay-crowned, was Shelley smiled upon?
Marlowe died timely. Well for him, his groans
On stake or rack else had out-moaned the moans
Of his own Edward; and that light that shone,
That voice, that trumpet, that white-throated swan,
When found he praise, save for " his honoured bones " ?

Honour enough for bones! but for live flesh
Cold-eyed mistrust, and ever watchful fear,
Mingled with homage given grudgingly
From cautious mouths. And all the while a mesh
To snare the singing-bird, to trap the deer,
And bind the feet of Immortality.