28.
Be it far from me to make complaint of love,
Love, without whom I will not happy be,
And though through him these weary toils I bear.
Yet what is given my will shall not reject.
Be clear the sky or dark, burning or cold,
To that one phoenix e'er the same I'll be,
No fate nor destiny can e'er untie
That knot which death unable is to loose;
To heart, to spirit, and to soul,
No pleasure is, no liberty, no life,
No smile, no rapture, no delight,
So sweet, so grateful, so divine,
As these hard bonds, this death of mine,
To which by fate, by will, by nature I incline.
Here, in the figure, he shows the resemblance between the enthusiast
and the butterfly attracted towards the light; in the sonnet, however,
he demonstrates rather difference and dissimilarity; as it is commonly
believed, that if the butterfly foresaw its destruction, it would fly
from the light more eagerly than it now pursues it, and would consider
it an evil to lose its life through being absorbed into that hostile
fire. But to him (the enthusiast) it is no less pleasing to perish in
the flames of amorous ardour than to be drawn to the contemplation of
the beauty of that rare splendour, under which, by natural inclination,
by voluntary election, and by disposition of fate, he labours, serves,
and dies more gaily, more resolutely, and more courageously than under
whatsoever other pleasure which may offer itself to the heart, liberty
which may be conceded to the spirit, and life which may be discovered in
the soul.