IV.
OOH many a time with Ovid have I borneMy father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled landOf rhyme—its Lares loftily forlorn,With all their pure humanities unworn—To batten on the bare Theologies!To quench a glory lighted at the skies,Fed on one essence with the silver morn,Were of all blasphemies the most insane.So deeplier given to the delicious spellI clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy painI lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
OOH many a time with Ovid have I borneMy father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled landOf rhyme—its Lares loftily forlorn,With all their pure humanities unworn—To batten on the bare Theologies!To quench a glory lighted at the skies,Fed on one essence with the silver morn,Were of all blasphemies the most insane.So deeplier given to the delicious spellI clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy painI lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
OOH many a time with Ovid have I borneMy father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand,To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled landOf rhyme—its Lares loftily forlorn,With all their pure humanities unworn—To batten on the bare Theologies!To quench a glory lighted at the skies,Fed on one essence with the silver morn,Were of all blasphemies the most insane.So deeplier given to the delicious spellI clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy!Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy painI lift white hands of gratitude, and cry,Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
O