XXXII.
Beauty by his own light shines forth and wins
Consent of all men to his supreme power;
Who will not think so, unagreeing, sins
’Gainst love that hails each beauty of an hour:
For love is only constant, when it sways
With the uncertain hues, that beauty gives,
Even admiration, swerving various ways,
Imagines change, and otherwhere straight lives:
The ficklest thing beneath the inconstant moon
Is the sigh swelling from a lover’s breast;
It pants, nor thinks that it must die full soon,
Even by its own luxuriance opprest.
Love like an o’erstrung bow, now snaps and breaks,
And now, o’erwrought, relaxes, yields, and shakes.
XXXIII.
I ask’d the echoes, that recall the past,
I ask’d the thrilling voice of those who live,
I ask’d the forms that mother nature cast
And feeds within the mind, aye yet can give,
Must love be fostered by its own despair?
Must the mere shadow mark where we adored?
Must we be drunk even with the wanton air,
Because both breathe it;—and our hearts be gored?
Where lies the fault? even in this, replies
The voice of Wisdom; thrifty Nature lends
Rude sketches, undeveloped, which thy sighs,
Thy fancy, thought, or lonely pride pretends
To draw to their full scope; oft must thou err,
Even though successful, nature will not stir.
XXXIV.
What’s more delightful than young love disporting
In the commutual bond of first breathed sighs?
What is more lovely than the passion, courting
Such sweet succession of carnation dyes,
When love grows pale and red, yet knows not why,
And sorrow kisses joy and both are glad?
What fame, or wealth, or power, or all, can buy
Aught but compared to this looks sourly-sad?
’Tis a brief joy, yet all that mortals know;
Happy who even this, unmixed, can find,
Who will not doubt the substance in the show,
Nor ruffle pleasure with unquiet mind:
Sift but enjoyment with too strict a hand,
It mocks your fingers, and escapes to sand.