O mighty Muse, wooer of virgin thought, Beside thy charm all else counteth as nought; The revelation of thy smile doth make Him whom thou lovest reckless for thy sake; Earthborn of suffering, that knowest well To call thine own, and with enamouring spell Feedest the stolen powers of godlike youth On dear imagination's only truth, Building with song a temple of desire; And with the yearning music of thy quire, In nuptial sacrament of thought and sense Hallowest for toil the hours of indolence: Thou in thy melancholic beauty drest, Subduest ill to serve thy fair behest, With tragic tears, and sevenfold purified Silver of mirth; and with extremest pride, With secret doctrine and unfathomed lore Remainest yet a child for evermore, The only enchantress of the earth that art To cheer his day and staunch man's bleeding heart.
O heavenly Muse, for heavenly thee we call Who in the fire of love refinest all, Accurst is he who heark'neth not thy voice; But happy he who, numbered of thy choice, Walketh aloof from nature's clouded plan: For all God's world is but the thought of man; Wherein hast thou re-formed a world apart, The mutual mirror of his better heart. There is no foulness, misery, nor sin, But he who loves finds his desire therein, And there with thee in lonely commerce lives: Nay, all that nature gave or fortune gives, Joys that his spirit is most jealous of, His only-embraced and best-deserving love, Who walketh in the noon of heavenly praise, The troubled godhead of his children's gaze, Wear thine eternity, and are loved best By thee transfigured and in thee possest; Who madest beauty, and from thy boundless store Of beauty shalt create for evermore.
Gay Marigold is frolic, She laughs till summer is done; She hears the Grillie chirping All day i' the blazing sun.
But when the pale moon rises, She fain her face would hide; For the high Queen of sorrows Disdains her empty pride.
Fair Primrose haunts the shadow With children of the Spring, Till in the bloomy woodland The nightingale will sing.
And when he lauds the May-night And spirits throng the grove, The moon shines thro' the branches And floods her heart with love.
Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones, Of lion-hearted, loving sons, Fal'n, the flower of English youth, To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth:--