To hold secure the province of Pure Art,—

To hold secure the province of Pure Art,—
What if the crude and weighty task were mine?—
For him who runs, cutting the pen less fine
Than formerly, and in the indignant heart
Dipping it straight? (to issue thence a dart,
And shine no more except as weapons shine)
The deeply-loved, the laboured, polished line
Eschew for ever?—this to be my part?
Attacked that Temple is which must not fall—
Under whose ancient shade Calliope,
Thalia, Euterpe, the nine Muses all
Went once about their happy business free:
Could I but write the Writing on the Wall!—
What matter, if one poet cease to be.