text_original: Whatever of true life there was in thee Leaps in our age's veins; Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery, And shake thine idle chains;   To thee thy dross is clinging, For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see, Thy poets still are singing.
text_transcription: WHATEVER OF TRUE LIFE THERE WAS IN THEE LEAPS IN OUR AGES VEINS WIELD STILL THY BAND AND WRINKLED EMPERY AND SHAKE THINE IDLE CHAINS TO THEE THY DROSS IS CLINGING FOR US THY MARTI THY PROPHET SEA THY POET STILL ARE SINGING
phonemes: wʌtˈɛvɚɹ ʌv tɹˈuː lˈaɪf ðɛɹwˌʌz ɪn ðiː lˈiːps ɪn ˌaʊɚɹ ˈeɪdʒᵻz vˈeɪnz; wˈiːld stˈɪl ðˌaɪ bˈɛnt ænd ɹˈɪŋkəld ˈɛmpɚɹi, ænd ʃˈeɪk ðaɪn ˈaɪdəl tʃˈeɪnz;   tə ðiː ðˌaɪ dɹˈɔs ɪz klˈɪŋɪŋ, fɔːɹ ˌʌs ðˌaɪ mˈɑːɹɾɚz dˈaɪ, ðˌaɪ pɹˈɑːfɪts sˈiː, ðˌaɪ pˈoʊɪts stˈɪl ɑːɹ sˈɪŋɪŋ.