No More Learning

I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast
And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those
Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

ANON. , OX. , 1795.


Life ever flies with course that nought may stay,
Death follows after with gigantic stride;
Ills past and present on my spirit prey,
And future evils threat on every side:
Whether I backward look or forward fare,
A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest;
And were it not that pity bids me spare
My nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest.
If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,
Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,
I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown;
E'en in the port I see the storm afar;
Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,
And set for ever my fair polar star.

DACRE.




SONNET V.

_Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi. _

HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE
VANITIES OF EARTH.


What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eye
Back on the time that never shall return?
The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn,
Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?
Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,
Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,
Are fled; and--well thou knowest, poor forlorn! --
To seek them here were bootless industry.
Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;
To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:
Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,
Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.
Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view,
Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.

WRANGHAM.




SONNET VI.

_Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri. _

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF
TREASON.


O tyrant thoughts, vouchsafe me some repose!
Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate,
Make war all round me to my very gate,
But I must in me armed hosts enclose?
And thou, my heart, to me alone that shows
Disloyal still, what cruel guides of late
In thee find shelter, now the chosen mate
Of my most mischievous and bitter foes?
Love his most secret embassies in thee,
In thee her worst results hard Fate explains,
And Death the memory of that blow, to me
Which shatters all that yet of hope remains;
In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm,
And thee alone I blame for all my harm.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET VII.

_Occhi miei, oscurato e 'l nostro sole.