« PreviousContinue »
FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
Come like a Giant from a haven broad;
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
TO THE RIVER DUDDON.
O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude :
A Field or two of brighter green, or Plot
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetray'd;
For if of our affections none find grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
FROM THE SAME.
No mortal object did these eyes behold
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;
Beyond the visible world She soars to seek,
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend