"Lady, in your bright eyes Soft glancing round, I mark a holy light, Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies; And to my practised sight, From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might, Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth. This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth, And urges me to seek the glorious goal; This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng, Nor can the human tongue Tell how those orbs divine o'er all my soul Exert their sweet control, Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung, And when the year puts on his youth again, Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain." Dacre. Then comes another mood, in which his love seems sinful and he prays God to lead him to a better life: "Father of heaven! after the days misspent, After the nights of wild tumultuous thought, In that fierce passion's strong entanglement, One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought; Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought; That so my foe, spreading with dark intent His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at nought. E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils, That I have bowed me to the tyranny Relentless most to fealty most tried. Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills: Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high; How on the cross this day a Savior died." Dacre. This state of his mind, divided against itself, finds its best expression in the song which is regarded as one of the most beautiful of his poems. In the various strophes conflicting sentiments arise, develop, and reach a climax, only to be overthrown by a sudden revulsion of feeling; fame, happiness, the sweetness of love beckon the poet on; then comes the chilling thought of death to show that all things earthly are nothing but vanity. Unfortunately this song is too long to be quoted here entire. We give the first strophe and the refrain: "Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought So strong a pity for myself appears, That often it has brought My harass'd heart to new yet natural tears; Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh, Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings With which the spirit springs, Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high; But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh, Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain: And so indeed in justice should it be; Able to stay, who went and fell, that he Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain. But, lo! the tender arms In which I trust are open to me still, Though fears my bosom fill Of other's fate, and my own heart alarms, Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill. * * * * *