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XLII.

TO

R. B. HAYDON, ESQ.

HIGH is our calling, Friend! — Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned to infuse

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,

Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness.

Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

XLIII.

FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,

Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed

In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,

And reason govern that audacious flight

Which heav'n-ward they direct.-Then droop not thou, Erroneously renewing a sad vow

In the low dell mid Roslin's faded grove:

A cheerful life is what the Muses love,

A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

XLIV.

FAIR Prime of life! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build

For Fancy's errands, then, from fields half-tilled
Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower,
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power,
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled.

Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due;
Fair Prime of Life! arouse the deeper heart;
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue

Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim;
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.

XLV.

I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
Strains - which, as sage Antiquity believed,
By waking ears have sometimes been received
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;

A most melodious requiem,

a supreme
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam
For is she not the votary of Apollo?

And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
That bliss awaits her which the ungenial hollow*
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires?

Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires!
She soared—and I awoke,— struggling in vain to follow.

* See the Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested.

XLVI.

RETIREMENT.

If the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Save only far as thought and feeling blend
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal;
But to promote and fortify the weal

Of our own Being, is her paramount end;
A truth which they alone shall comprehend
Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal.
Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss;
Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake,
And startled only by the rustling brake,

Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered Mind,
By some weak aims at services assigned

To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.

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