Not yet trodden under wholly,
Not yet darkened,
Oh, my spirit’s flickering lamp, art thou !
Still, alas ! thou wanest—though but slowly ;
And I feel as though my heart had hearkened
To the whispers of despondence now.
Yet the world shall not enthral me—
Never ! never !—
On my briary pathway to the grave
Shapes of pain and peril may appal me,
Agony and ruin may befal me—
Darkness and dismay may lower ever,
But, cold world, I will not die thy slave !
Underneath my foot I trample
You, ye juggles—
Pleasure, passion, thirst of power and gold !
Shall I, dare I, shame the bright example,
Beaming, burning in the deeds and struggles
Of the consecrated few of old ?
Sacred flame—which art eternal !
Oh ! bright essence !
Thou, Enthusiasm !—forsake me not !
Oh, though life be reft of all her vernal
Beauty, ever let thy magic presence
Shed its glory round my clouded lot.
[James Clarence Mangan,
The Dublin Penny Journal,
July 6, 1833]