Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess’d.
With a smile that glow’d Celestial rosy red, love’s proper hue.
Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny’d, and are of love the food.
Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy.
License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.
In naked beauty more adorn’d, More lovely than Pandora.
Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
Who, as they sung, would take the prison’d soul And lap it in Elysium.
With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov’d. Imparadised in one another’s arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o’er true virginity.
You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It’s all in the mind.
In contemplation of created things, by steps we may ascend to God.
Beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive.
Hung over her enamour’d, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom’s gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.
From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer’s day; and with the setting sun Dropp’d from the Zenith like a falling star.
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.
As children gath’ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?