So to express it, who myself can be The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those I sing to, over-likely to suppose [Sidenote: And declines from the ideal of song.] A higher than the highest I present Now, which they praise already: be content Both parties, rather--they with the old verse, And I with the old praise--far go, fare worse!" A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps, So might Apollo from the sudden corpse Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits. He set to celebrating the exploits Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers. Then came The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim Merely,--what was it? "Not to play the fool So much as learn our lesson in your school!" Replied the world. He found that, every time He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme, His auditory recognized no jot As he intended, and, mistaking not Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce Sufficient to believe him--all, at once. His will ... conceive it caring for his will! --Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak, Had Montfort at completely (so to speak) His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept: The true meed for true merit!--his abates [Sidenote: What is the world's recognition worth?] Into a sort he most repudiates, And on them angrily he turns. Who were The Mantuans, after all, that he should care About their recognition, ay or no? In spite of the convention months ago, (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help This same ungrateful audience, every whelp Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers With the bright band of old Goito years, As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed A fairy dust upon that multitude, Although he feigned to take them by themselves; His giants dignified those puny elves, Sublime their faint applause. In short, he found Himself still footing a delusive round, Remote as ever from the self-display He meant to compass, hampered every way By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then Continue, make believe to find in men A use he found not? Weeks, months, years went by, And lo, Sordello vanished utterly, Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife With each; one jarred against another life; [Sidenote: How, poet no longer in unity with man,] The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man, Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran Here, there,--let slip no opportunities As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize To drop on him some no-time and acquit