I fix’d this rule: in Sarum Close To make two visits every week, The first, to-day; and, save on those, I nought would do, think, read, or speak, Which did not help my settled will To earn the Statesman’s proud applause. And now, forthwith, to mend my skill In ethics, politics, and laws, The Statesman’s learning! Flush’d with power And pride of freshly-form’d resolve, I read Helvetius half-an-hour; But, halting in attempts to solve Why, more than all things else that be, A lady’s grace hath force to move That sensitive appetency Of intellectual good, call’d love, Took Blackstone down, only to draw My swift-deriving thoughts ere long To love, which is the source of law, And, like a king, can do no wrong; Then open’d Hyde, where loyal hearts, With faith unpropp’d by precedent, Began to play rebellious parts. O, mighty stir that little meant! How dull the crude, plough’d fields of fact To me who trod the Elysian grove! How idle all heroic act By the least suffering of love! I could not read; so took my pen, And thus commenced, in form of notes, A Lecture for the Salisbury men, With due regard to Tory votes: ‘A road’s a road, though worn to ruts; They speed who travel straight therein; But he who tacks and tries short cuts Gets fools’ praise and a broken shin—’ And here I stopp’d in sheer despair; But, what to-day was thus begun, I vow’d, up starting from my chair, To-morrow should indeed be done; So loosed my chafing thoughts from school, To play with fancy as they chose, And then, according to my rule, I dress’d, and came to Sarum Close. 5 Ah, that sweet laugh! Diviner sense Did Nature, forming her, inspire To omit the grosser elements, And make her all of air and fire! 6 To-morrow, Cowes’ Regatta fell: The Dean would like his girls to go, If I went too. ‘Most gladly.’ Well, I did but break a foolish vow! Unless Love’s toil has love for prize, (And then he’s Hercules), above All other contrarieties Is labour contrary to love. No fault of Love’s, but nature’s laws! And Love, in idleness, lies quick; For as the worm whose powers make pause, And swoon, through alteration sick, The soul, its wingless state dissolved, Awaits its nuptial life complete, All indolently self-convolved, Cocoon’d in silken fancies sweet. CANTO V. The Queen’s Room. PRELUDES. I. _Rejected_.