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Fresh morning
gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,
-now from gloominess
I mount for ever -not an atom
less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
In the
Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very
leaves, woven to bless
By thy white fingers and thy
spirit clear.
Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares
call down
My will from its high purpose? Who
say,"Stand,"
Or, "Go"? This mighty moment I would
frown
On abject Caesars -not the stoutest band
Of
mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I
kneel and kiss thy gentle hand
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