'Be, rather than be call'd, a child of God,' Death whisper'd!--with assenting nod, Its head upon its mother's breast, The Baby bow'd, without demur-- Of the kingdom of the Blest Possessor, not inheritor.
On Donne's Poetry
``With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ; Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue, Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.''
On Revisiting The Sea-Shore, After Long Absence, Under Strong Medical Recommendation Not To Bathe
God be with thee, gladsome Ocean! How gladly greet I thee once more! Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, And men rejoicing on thy shore.
Dissuading spake the mild physician, 'Those briny waves for thee are death!' But my soul fulfilled her mission, And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!
Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters; And what cares Nature, if they die?
Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, Revisit on thy echoing stand:
Dreams (the soul herself forsaking), Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; Silent adorations, making A blessed shadow of this Earth!
O ye hopes, that stir within me, Health comes with you from above! God is with me, God is in me! I cannot die, if Life be Love.
On The Christening Of A Friend's Child
This day among the faithful placed, And fed with fontal manna, O with maternal title graced Dear Anna's dearest Anna!--
While others wish thee wise and fair, A maid of spotless fame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-- May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy mother's name--a potent spell, That bids the virtues hie From mystic grove and living cell Confess'd to fancy's eye;--
Meek quietness without offence; Content in homespun kirtle; True love; and true love's innocence, White blossom of the myrtle!
Associates of thy name, sweet child! These virtues may'st thou win; With face as eloquently mild To say, they lodge within.
So, when her tale of days all flown, Thy mother shall be mist here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own, And angels snatch their sister;
Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, May gaze with stifled breath; And oft, in momentary trance, Forget the waste of death.
Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd, In summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the rose's side.
It chanced, I pass'd again that way In autumn's latest hour, And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray Rich with the selfsame flower.
Ah, fond deceit! the rude green bud Alike in shape, place, name, Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, Another and the same!
Phantom
All look and likeness caught from earth All accident of kin and birth, Had pass'd away. There was no trace Of aught on that illumined face, Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone But of one spirit all her own ;-- She, she herself, and only she, Shone through her body visibly.
Phantom Or Fact? A Dialogue In Verse
Author. A lovely form there sate beside my bed, And such a feeding calm its presence shed, A tender love so pure from earthly leaven That I unnethe the fancy might control, 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven Wooing its gentle way into my soul! But ah! the change -- It had not stirred, and yet Alas! that change how fain would I forget? That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! That weary, wandering, disavowing Look! 'Twas all another, feature, look and frame, And still, methought, I knew it was the same!
Friend. This riddling Tale, to what does it belong? Is't History? Vision? or an idle Song? Or rather say at once, within what space Of Time this wild disastrous change took place?
Author. Call it a moment's work (and such it seems), This Tale's a Fragment from the Life of Dreams; But say, that years matured the silent strife, And 'tis a Record from the Dream of Life.
Psyche
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-- But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade Of mortal life !--For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, Manifold motions making little speed, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.
Reason
... Finally, what is Reason ? You have often asked me ; and this is my answer :--
Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee, [Sublimates] to a pure transparency, That intercepts no light and adds no stain-- There Reason is, and then begins her reign !
But alas ! ------`tu stesso, ti fai grosso Col falso immaginar, si che non vedi Cio che vedresti, se l'avessi scosso.'
