How vilely ’twere to misdeserve The poet’s gift of perfect speech, In song to try, with trembling nerve, The limit of its utmost reach, Only to sound the wretched praise Of what to-morrow shall not be; So mocking with immortal bays The cross-bones of mortality! I do not thus. My faith is fast That all the loveliness I sing Is made to bear the mortal blast, And blossom in a better Spring. Doubts of eternity ne’er cross The Lover’s mind, divinely clear; _For ever_ is the gain or loss Which maddens him with hope or fear: So trifles serve for his relief, And trifles make him sick and pale; And yet his pleasure and his grief Are both on a majestic scale. The chance, indefinitely small, Of issue infinitely great, Eclipses finite interests all, And has the dignity of fate. II. _Heaven and Earth_. How long shall men deny the flower Because its roots are in the earth, And crave with tears from God the dower They have, and have despised as dearth, And scorn as low their human lot, With frantic pride, too blind to see That standing on the head makes not Either for ease or dignity! But fools shall feel like fools to find (Too late inform’d) that angels’ mirth Is one in cause, and mode, and kind With that which they profaned on earth. ÆTNA AND THE MOON. 1 To soothe my heart I, feigning, seized A pen, and, showering tears, declared My unfeign’d passion; sadly pleased Only to dream that so I dared. Thus was the fervid truth confess’d, But wild with paradox ran the plea. As wilfully in hope depress’d, Yet bold beyond hope’s warranty: 2