There in her old-world garden smiles
A symbol of the world's desire,
Striving with quaint and lovely wiles
To bind to earth the soul of fire.

And while I sit and listen there,
The robe of Beauty falls away
From universal things to where
Its image dazzles for a day.

Away! the great life calls; I leave
For Beauty, Beauty's rarest flower;
For Truth, the lips that ne'er deceive;
For Love, I leave Love's haunted bower.

I have seen the harlot decked for death,
I have seen the fruitful woman scorned for ugliness.
I will not embrace Beauty but Order,
Scorning this body which must grow old.

I have heard the loveless laughter of fools,
I have seen the wanton and the pander drunk with mirth.
Laughter is a sacrament which should be shared for Love's sake.
Let us then be merry when mirth is no sacrilege.

I have seen the eyes of a smirched man turn from his paramour's lapdog
To find refreshment in a child's look.

How did she abdicate?
Was it with soft sighs
And pretty feignings of a lover's state,
Or was it solemn-wise,
With altar offerings and rapt vows?
O no! when Love himself was there,
Most housewifely she bound her hair
And went off across the field to milk the cows.

He who thinks a perfect melody,
Lives, for that time in harmony,
Walks for that time in liberty,
Loves for that time in purity.

Ah! when shall I, my glory,
Discern thy light in radiance shining,
Thy presence illusory,
To bring me sweet release from grief and pining?
When shall I see thine eyes, enchanting rapture,
And yield thee mine, as tender capture?

When will thy voice awaken
Mine ears with thrilling accents from their sadness,
And I, enthralled, o'ertaken
By the floods of its ineffable gladness,
Be swept away in ecstasy, and after
The marvel wanes, hasten to thee with laughter?

When will thy light effulgent

Not for an hour shall your dear thought escape me.
I keep it fast to cheer, to guide, to shape me.
As an old pilot held in sight a star,
As a wrecked man clings frantic to a spar,
So I maintain your love in memory,
My hope of haven, my security.

It must be true I love you well
Since your light words are whips of Hell.
But who has pain has songs to sell.
My profitable Friends, farewell!

Bright is the gloom oh venerable shade,
Which memory casts o'er worth that cannot fade,
Such worth as thine, where once in union join'd
The saints soft spirit, and the hero's mind;
Tho' mild, yet firm — magnanimous, sincere
Tho' dignified with virtue, not severe —
Fair lib'ral candour in thy accents flow'd,
And still thy loyal heart for Britain glow'd.

True to religion and its sov'reign power
Resign'd composure mark'd thy suff'ring hour,
And faithful mem'ry trac'd the glorious scene
Where christian truth first casts its light serene;

Who prizes fruit and scorns the tree?
Yet this fair Critic says of me,
I love the work, but hate the man!
Show charier charity who can!

My Lady, I was ever loth
To wait inactive to be loved,
I found in insult, whips from cloth,
When I was stung I moved.
But there is justice for whose sake
A sleepy dignity will wake.
If of my book you prize a part,
Honour a hand, deal fairly with a heart.
The thing you love is very me,
Come, eat the fruit, but love the tree!

Fierce Love the Muses fear not, but affect,
And gladly by his steps their own direct;
If One whose Genius is not am'rous try
To sing him, they, to teach refusing, fly;
But if some Lover his sweet song begin,
To him they joyfully come thronging in;
This witnesse the disorder of my tongue
When God or Man is subject of my song
But Love and Lycidas ; what I compose
Of them in streams of verse untroubled flows.