| |
| HAVE, fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear | |
| To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell, | |
| An age is now since passed, since parted; with the reversal | |
| Of the outward sentence low lays him, listed to a heresy, here. | |
| |
| Not mood in him nor meaning, proud fire or sacred fear, | 5 |
| Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his might nursle: | |
| It is the forgèd feature finds me; it is the rehearsal | |
| Of own, of abrupt self there so thrusts on, so throngs the ear. | |
| |
| Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me, lay me! only I’ll | |
| Have an eye to the sakes of him, quaint moonmarks, to his pelted plumage under | 10 |
| Wings: so some great stormfowl, whenever he has walked his while | |
| |
| The thunder-purple seabeach plumèd purple-of-thunder, | |
| If a wuthering of his palmy snow-pinions scatter a colossal smile | |
| Off him, but meaning motion fans fresh our wits with wonder. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
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