XLII. TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ. HIGH is our calling, Friend! — Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned- to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness Great is the glory, for the strife is hard! XLIII. FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed, In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heav'n-ward they direct.-Then droop not thou, Erroneously renewing a sad vow In the low dell mid Roslin's faded grove: A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight. XLIV. FAIR Prime of life! were it enough to gild For Fancy's errands, then, from fields half-tilled Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due; Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; XLV. I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream) Strains which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received A most melodious requiem, a supreme And perfect harmony of notes, achieved And knows she not, singing as he inspires, Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires! See the Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested. XLVI. RETIREMENT. Ir the whole weight of what we think and feel, Of our own Being, is her paramount end; Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered Mind, By some weak aims at services assigned To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. |