A retributive black ding-dong? 
     And ask of thyself:  This furious Yea
     Of a speech I thump to repeat,
     In the cause I would have prevail,
     For seed of a nourishing wheat,
     is it accepted of song? 
     Does it sound to the mind through the ear,
     Right sober, pure sane? has it disciplined feet? 
     Thou wilt find it a test severe;
     Unerring whatever the theme. 
     Rings it for Reason a melody clear,
     We have bidden old Chaos retreat;
     We have called on Creation to hear;
     All forces that make us are one full stream. 
     Simple islander! thus may the spirit in verse,
     Showing its practical value and weight,
     Pipe to thee clear from the Empty Purse,
     Lead thee aloft to that high estate. —
     The test is conclusive, I deem: 
     It embraces or mortally bites. 
     We have then the key-note for debate: 
     A Senate that sits on the heights
     Over discords, to shape and amend.

     And no singer is needed to serve
     The musical God, my friend. 
     Needs only his law on a sensible nerve: 
     A law that to Measure invites,
     Forbidding the passions contend. 
     Is it accepted of Song? 
     And if then the blunt answer be Nay,
     Dislink thee sharp from the ramping horde,
     Slaves of the Goddess of hoar-old sway,
     The Queen of delirious rites,
     Queen of those issueless mobs, that rend
     For frenzy the strings of a fruitful accord,
     Pursuing insensate, seething in throng,
     Their wild idea to its ashen end. 
     Off to their Phrygia, shriek and gong,
     Shorn from their fellows, behold them wend!

     But thou, should the answer ring Ay,
     Hast warrant of seed for thy word: 
     The musical God is nigh
     To inspirit and temper, tune it, and steer
     Through the shoals:  is it worthy of Song,
     There are souls all woman to hear,
     Woman to bear and renew. 
     For he is the Master of Measure, and weighs,
     Broad as the arms of his blue,
     Fine as the web of his rays,
     Justice, whose voice is a melody clear,
     The one sure life for the numbered long,
     From him are the brutal and vain,
     The vile, the excessive, out-thrust: 
     He points to the God on the upmost throne: 
     He is the saver of grain,
     The sifter of spirit from dust. 
     He, Harmony, tells how to Measure pertain
     The virilities:  Measure alone
     Has votaries rich in the male: 
     Fathers embracing no cloud,
     Sowing no harvestless main: 
     Alike by the flesh and the spirit endowed
     To create, to perpetuate; woo, win, wed;
     Send progeny streaming, have earth for their own,
     Over-run the insensates, disperse with a puff
     Simulacra, though solid they sail,
     And seem such imperial stuff: 
     Yes, the living divide off the dead.