The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honourd bones, The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What needst thou such weak witness of thy name?