When faith is firm, and conscience clear, And words of peace the spirit cheer, And visioned glories half appear, 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die. When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,— 'Tis nature's precious boon to die. STANZAS: IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. So long estranged from every Muse's lyre, Ah, how is quenched the lamp that burnt so fair! Come, sweet seducers, late too far away, Once more to my deserted cell repair; Your rebel courts again your gentle sway; Come, soothe the winter's night, and charm the sum mer's day. Come, dear companions of my youthful hour, They with becoming scorn reject thy prayer: "Go, court the world," they cry, "thou art not worth our care." Bustle and hurry, noise and thrall they hate, And plodding Method with her leaden rule; And all that binds to earth the golden fool; And creeping Labour with his patient tool: Free like the birds they wander unconfined, Nor dip their wings in Lucre's muddy pool; That spins her dirty web, and clouds the' ethereal mind. Ah, why should man, in hard unsocial strife, And withering care whose vigils never cease, Of his sad birthright reap such large increase! Despising cheap delights, he loves to scoop Or where midst rustling corn the nodding poppies bloom. TO MISS T. SWEET are the thoughts that stir the virgin's breast When love first enters there, a timid guest; Before her dazzled eyes gay visions shine, And laughing Cupids wreaths of roses twine; And conscious beauty hastens to employ Her span of empire and her dream of joy. Sarah! not thus to thee his power is shown; More stern he greets thee from his awful throne. |