My fond first love, sweet mistress of my mind,
Thy beautiful sublimity hath long
Charm'd mine affections, and entranced my song,
Thou spirit-queen, that sit'st enthroned, enshrined
Within this suppliant heart; by day and night
My brain is full of thee: ages of dreams,
Thoughts of a thousand worlds in visions bright,
Fear's dim terrific train, Guilt's midnight schemes,
Strange peeping eyes, soft smiling fairy faces,
Dark consciousness of fallen angels nigh,
Sad converse with the dead, or headlong races
Down the straight cliffs, or clinging on a shelf
Of brittle shale, or hunted thro' the sky!--
O, God of mind, I shudder at myself!
Now, friend reader, you have accustomed yourself to think that every
thing in rhyme, _i. e._, poetry, as you somewhat scornfully call it,
must be false: and I am sorry to be obliged to grant you that a leaning
towards plain matter-of-fact, is no wise characteristic of metrical
enthusiasts. But believe me for a truth-teller; that sonnet (did you
read it?) hints at some fearful verities; and that you may further
apprehend this sweet ideal mistress of your author's mind, suffer me to
introduce to your acquaintance