Slide 19
Slide 19 text
Prose Poem by A. Machine
Yet this happy burthens Eric. I echo back each sting Thrown by thy
vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on a train Of whitest arms in these joys That through half veil'd
face of his latest breath, While from Armida's bowers, And, warrior, it
e'er will keep A fragile dew-drop on the room like something from his
trappings glow Of this wonder of Despair, Strive for lo! I feel their
soft "Lydian airs," And fresh sward beneath it, (For knightly casque
are thirsty every hour. And can make "a sun-shine in throngs before him
away, Than the goodliest view a Poet, sure shall be alone. Yet these
scribblings might call my spirit shroud, Sweet too upheld the supreme
of May seem a flower, into a gentle doings: They should not the eastern
dimness, And his star-cheering voice sweetly they occasion; 'tis I
marvel much more beautiful, more pleasing, a new sun-rise.