O David, if I had Your power, I should be glad - In harping, with the sling, In patient reasoning! Blake, Homer, Job, and you, Have made old wine-skins new. Your energies have wrought Stout continents of thought. But, David, if the heart Be brass, what boots the art Of exorcising wrong, Of harping to a song? The sceptre and the ring And every royal thing Will fail. Grief's lustiness Must cure that harp's distress.