CXV. Egeria sweet creation of some heart 1 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert, a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep CXVII. Fantastically tangled: the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. 1 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. XXVII. CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? CXX. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. Oh Love! no habitant of earth art thou And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd-wearied wrung-and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation : where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, CXXIII. Who loves, raves- 'tis youth's frenzy-but the cure The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize-wealthiest when most undone. P CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp away-- Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first – And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. CXXV. Few-none-find what they love or could have loved, Whose touch turns Hope to dust,—the dust we all have trod. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature- 't is not in This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew– Disease, death, bondage-all the woes we see And worse, the woes we see not-which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly—'t is a base 1 Our right of thought-our last and only place Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 1 "At all events," says the author of the Academical Questions, "I trust, whatever may be the fate of my own speculations, that philosophy will regain that estimation which it ought to possess. The free and philosophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of admiration to the world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then forget the manly and dignified sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language of the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices? This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the brilliant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while reason slumbers in the citadel; but if the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty support each other: he who will not reason is a bigot; he who cannot, is a fool; and he who dares not, is a slave."— Vol. i. pref. p. 14, 15. |