A New Prometheus

What dole, what crime, what fate is mine,
That I must toil and never sing?
Have all my soul-lights ceased to shine?
Is fancy frozen at the spring?
Harsh, rattling cares have gripped me fast,
And life looks like a ledger leaf
Ruled lines and figures grimly cast,
Nought credited to joy or grief.
But often, when the whirl and din
Are maddest, and the toil-time long,
My heart leaps wild my bosom in
To some short snatch of spirit song.
For hours it tunes the presses whirr,
And shapes the day's deeds to a hymn;
No gift of incense, gold and myrrh,
Could brighten so my pathway dim.
Touch, then, fair god, my soul and lips;
Live coals of love have made them pure;
The chain that loose from others slips,
Drags me, and, yearning, I endure.