177
Even a beechen bowl is beautiful,
A cedar, fallen, makes a fragrant press,
Or breathes it's sweetness out in glowing fire.
Nothing so grand that it awake not joy,
Nothing so slight but you may joy in it,
Fragrance of flowers, cool of water-spring,
A Gothic Fane's capricious fantasy
As in an Attic Temple's line and law,
Savour of fruit as warmth of winter fire
The silver stars, the splendour of the sun,
The placid and the vex'd complaining sea!
Ombrage:
Lady, have you no oracle for me,
What of my future?
Peregrina:
Like the wandering bird
That builds no nest, that has no resting-place,
That never furls a travel-weary wing,
