Who gave thee,
O Beauty!
The keys of this breast,
Too credulous
Of blest and unblest?
Say when in lapsed
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous
Make women of men;
New-born we are
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err,
Guest of million painted
Which in turn thy glory warms,
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,
The swinging spider's silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a
In thy momentary
Would bankrupt Nature to repay.
Ah! what avails
To hide or to
Whom the Infinite
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high
Is the deep's lover,
The sun and
Informed by thee,
Before me run,
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate
To me the heart Fate for me chooses,
Is it that my opulent
Was mingled from the generous whole,
Sea valleys and the deep of
Furnished several supplies,
And the sands whereof I'm
Draw me to them self-betrayed?
I turn the proud
Which hold the grand
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi's lines.
I hear the lofty
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music,
And recount the numbers well:
Olympian bards who
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest placesI detect far wandered graces,
Which from Eden wide
In lowly homes have lost their way.
Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to
Sweet extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to
Of the nectar which thou hast.
All that's good and great with
Stands in deep conspiracy.
Thou hast bribed the dark and
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning,
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art,
E'en the flowing azure
Thou hast touched for my despair,
And if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things!
I dare not
In Being's deeps past ear and eye,
Lest there I find the same deceiver,
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.
