Who then hath mark’d thee not in joy delightful,

Careering on thy young soul’s restless flow?

Or who hath, sadly, blam’d not sorrow spiteful,

Tempering thy beauty with a heavenly glow?

The even tenor of thy bosom led past,

Nor brook’d those tremors that disturb light breasts;

But, like a holy ocean, calm, pure, steadfast,

Just heav’d beneath its load which on it rests;

Streaked with faint tints of long delicious light,

Whose radiance lures but never tires the sight.

{6}

{6}

VI.

Bound in a little room, my heart exulting,

Surveys the treasures of unmeasured space;

A thousand pathways in one spot resulting,

Disclose the errors of the human race;

What all men seek within that centre lies,

Whose ripening virtues shun the general view,

Lest all should dub them beautiful and wise,

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