WEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, Pourest such music, that it might assuage This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed It over-soared this low and worldly shade, Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse! Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form Among the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm! Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror! Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun, now Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow! I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song All of its much mortality and wrong, With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through, Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy : I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin name Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame. Would we two had been twins of the same mother! Or, that the name my heart lent to another These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me! Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings; Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless? Whose waters like blithe light and music are, Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star Which moves not in the moving Heavens, alone? A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone Amid rude voices? a beloved light? A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A Lute, which those whom Love has taught to play Make music on, to soothe the roughest day And lull fond grief asleep? a buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleas ure; A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? - I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find - alas! mine own infirmity. She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day, Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, |