XIII. ON FAME. 1819. FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy And dotes the more upon a heart at ease; Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn; XIV. ON FAME. "You cannot eat your cake and have it too."-Proverb, How fever'd is the man, who cannot look It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 1819. Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom: But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space; Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? XV. 1819. WHY did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell: To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser-Death is Life's high meed. XVI. ON A DREAM.* 1819. As Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright, So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw XVII. 1819. IF by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown; So, if we may not let the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own. |