Chapter IV

Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne
My father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,
To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled land
Of rhyme--its Lares loftily forlorn,
With all their pure humanities unworn--
To batten on the bare Theologies!
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
Fed on one essence with the silver morn,
Were of all blasphemies the most insane.
So deeplier given to the delicious spell
I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!
Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy pain
I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,
Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?