UNS fret not at their convent's narrow room; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Should find brief solace there, as I have found. HE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The winds that will be howling at all hours, A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. LONDON, 1802. ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. NCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee; Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. No guile seduced, no force could violate; She must espouse the everlasting Sea. When her long life hath reached its final day : POET! He hath put his heart to school, By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; But from its own divine vitality. |