Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne
My father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,
To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled land
Of rhyme--its Lares loftily forlorn,
With all their pure humanities unworn--
To batten on the bare Theologies!
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
Fed on one essence with the silver morn,
Were of all blasphemies the most insane.
So deeplier given to the delicious spell
I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!
Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy pain
I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,
Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
V
Last night, on coughing slightly with sharp pain,
There came arterial blood, and with a sigh
Of absolute grief I cried in bitter vein,
That drop is my death-warrant: I must die.
Poor meagre life is mine, meagre and poor!
Rather a piece of childhood thrown away;
An adumbration faint; the overture
To stifled music; year that ends in May;
The sweet beginning of a tale unknown;
A dream unspoken; promise unfulfilled;
A morning with no noon, a rose unblown--
All its deep rich vermilion crushed and killed
I’ th’ bud by frost:--Thus in false fear I cried,
Forgetting that to abolish death Christ died.