Which with its glory would have wrapp’d thee round,
To the Gravesbrink, untouched by Age or Pain!
Alas! we mar what Fancy’s Womb has brought
Forth of most beautiful, and to the Bound
Of Sense reduce the Helen of the Brain!”
What a picture! Psyche, pale with love and fear, bending in the uncertain light, over her lord, with the rich flush of health and sleep and manhood on his cheek, “as a lily droops faint o’er a folded rose!” We remember nothing anywhere finer than this.
Ode to Psyche.
“1. Why stand’st thou thus at Gaze
In the faint Tapersrays,
With strainëd Eyeballs fixed upon that Bed?