| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | Lee |
| | | | Am I to blame, if nature threw my body |
| In so perverse a mould! yet when she cast |
| Her envious hand upon my supple joints, |
| Unable to resist, and rumpled them |
| On heaps in their dark lodging; to revenge |
| Her bungled work, she stamped my mind more fair, |
| And as from chaos, huddled and deform’d, |
| The gods struck fire, and lighted up the lamps |
| That beautify the sky; so she inform’d |
| This ill-shap’d body with a daring soul, |
| And, making less than man, she made me more. |
| 1 |
| | As well the noble savage of the field |
| Might tamely couple with the fearful ewe; |
| Tigers might engender with the timid deer; |
| Wild, muddy boars defile the cleanly ermine, |
| Or vultures sort with doves; as I with thee. |
| 2 |
| | By heavens, my love, thou dost distract my soul! |
| There’s not a tear that falls from those dear eyes, |
| But makes my heart weep blood. |
| 3 |
| | I could perceive with joy, a silent show’r |
| Run down his silver beard. |
| 4 |
| | I found her on the floor |
| In all the storm of grief; yet beautiful! |
| Sighing such a breath of sorrow, that her lips, |
| Which late appear’d like buds, were now o’er-blown! |
| Pouring forth tears, at such a lavish rate, |
| That were the world on fire, they might have drown’d |
| The wrath of heaven, and quench’d the mighty ruin. |
| 5 |
| | I weep, ’tis true; but Machiavel, I swear |
| They’re tears of vengeance; drops of liquid fire! |
| So marble weeps, when flames surround the quarry, |
| And the pil’d oaks spout forth such scalding bubbles, |
| Before the general blaze. |
| 6 |
| | If we must pray, |
| Rear in the streets bright altars to the gods, |
| Let virgin’s hands adorn the sacrifice; |
| And not a grey-beard forging priest come here, |
| To pry into the bowels of their victim, |
| And with their dotage mad the gaping world. |
| 7 |
| | In taking leave, |
| Thro’ the dark lashes of her darting eyes, |
| Methought she shot her soul at ev’ry glance, |
| Still looking back, as if she had a mind |
| That you should know she left her soul behind her. |
| 8 |
| | Nature herself started back when thou wert born, |
| And cried, “the work’s not mine.” |
| The midwife stood aghast; and when she saw |
| Thy mountain back and thy distorted legs, |
| Thy face itself, |
| Half-minted with the royal stamp of man, |
| And half o’ercome with beast, she doubted long |
| Whose right in thee were more; |
| And know not if to burn thee in the flames |
| Were not the holier work. |
| 9 |
| | Oh! I will curse thee till thy frighted soul |
| Runs mad with horror. |
| 10 |
| | When Greeks join’d Greeks, then was the tug of war; |
| The labor’d battle sweat, and conquest bled. |
| 11 |
| | When the sun sets, shadows that show’d at noon |
| But small, appear most long and terrible: |
| So when we think fate hovers o’er our heads, |
| Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds; |
| Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death: |
| Nature’s worst vermin scare her godlike sons. |
| Echoes, the very leaving of a voice, |
| Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves. |
| Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus, |
| While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff, |
| And sweat with an imagination’s weight. |
| 12 | | |
|
|
