XLII. TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ. HIGH is our calling, Friend! — Creative Art Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness. Great is the glory, for the strife is hard! XLIII. FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed, Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall bear In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, 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 Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due; Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; XLV. I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream) A most melodious requiem, a supreme And knows she not, singing as he inspires, Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires! * See the Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested. XLVI. RETIREMENT. If the whole weight of what we think and feel, Of our own Being, is her paramount end; Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered Mind, To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. |