Now since to me altho' by thee refused The world is left, I shall find pleasure still; The art that most I have loved but little used Will yield a world of fancies at my will: And tho' where'er thou goest it is from me, I where I go thee in my heart must bear; And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be, My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair. Farewell, yet think not such farewell a change From tenderness, tho' once to meet or part But on short absence so coud sense derange That tears have graced the greeting of my heart; They were proud drops and had my leave to fall, Not on thy pity for my pain to call. 14 When sometimes in an ancient house where state From noble ancestry is handed on, We see but desolation thro' the gate, And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone; Because maybe some fancied shame or fear, Bred of disease or melancholy fate, Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphere To wander nameless save to pity or hate: What is the wreck of all he hath in fief, When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fine Unto the sick, nor doth it burden grief That the house perish when the soul doth pine. Thus I my state despise, slain by a sting So slight 'twould not have hurt a meaner thing. 15 Who builds a ship must first lay down the keel Of health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed: And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bed For decks of purity, her floor and ceil. Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal, To fortune's wind the sails of purpose spread: And at the prow make figured maidenhead O'erride the seas and answer to the wheel. And let him deep in memory's hold have stor'd Water of Helicon: and let him fit The needle that doth true with heaven accord: Then bid her crew, love, diligence and wit With justice, courage, temperance come aboard, And at her helm the master reason sit. 16 This world is unto God a work of art, Of which the unaccomplish'd heavenly plan Is hid in life within the creature's heart, And for perfection looketh unto man. Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slow Pains and persistence were his idols made, Destroy'd and made, ere ever he coud know The mighty mother must be so obey'd. For lack of knowledge and thro' little skill His childish mimicry outwent his aim; His effort shaped the genius of his will; Till thro' distinction and revolt he came, True to his simple terms of good and ill, Seeking the face of Beauty without blame. 17