Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle The gentle heart, as northern blasts do heaven! roses; These things, with all their comfortings, And then the ballad of his sad life closes Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them! Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream?' Hereat the Look'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruth 'Peona! ever have I long'd to slake My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base, 770 No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, Into a sort of oneness, and our state Is like a floating spirit's. But there are Upon the forehead of humanity. 801 All its more ponderous and bulky worth The stubborn canvas for my voyage pre- Mingle, and so become a part of it, 810 How tiptoe Night holds back her darkgray hood. Just so may love, although 't is understood The mere commingling of passionate breath, Produce more than our searching witnesseth: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side. Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 870 The meadows runnels, runnels pebble- Right upward, through the bushes, to the stones, 839 The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, If human souls did never kiss and greet? 'Now, if this earthly love has power to make Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake Ambition from their memories, and brim Their measure of content; what merest whim, Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, To one, who keeps within his steadfast aim A love immortal, an immortal too. Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true 850 And never can be born of atomies Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, Has made me scruple whether that same night 860 Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona ! Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light For others, good or bad, hatred and Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 't is naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, |