A Shout That Tore Hell's Concave, And

For So I Created Them Free And Free They Must Remain.

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

He Who Freely Magnifies What Hath Been Nobly Done, And Fears Not To Declares As Freely What Might Be Done Better, Gives Ye The Best Covenant Of His Fidelity.

Part Of My Soul I Seek Thee, And Claim Thee My Other Half

Tower'd Cities Please Us Then, And The Busy Hum Of Men.