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Then turn we to her latest tribune's name,
Egerial sweet creation of some heart"
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
Fantastically tangled: the green hills
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour’d by its
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports 7 could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart— The dull satiety which all destroys— 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.
Oh Love no habitant of earth art thou
As haunts the unquench’d soul—parch'd, wearied,
wrung, and riven.
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation :-where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized In him alone. Can Nature show so fair Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?
Who loves, raves—'tis youth's frenzy—but the cure Is bitterer still, as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize—wealthiest when most undone.
cxxiv. We wither from our youth, we gasp away— Sick—sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first— But all too late-so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice—'tis the same, Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst— For all are meteors with a different name,
Few—none—find what they love or could have loved, Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies—but to recur, ere long, Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; And Circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns Hope to dust,-the dust we all have trod.