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11.

FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes beholdWhen first they met the placid light of thine,And my Soul felt her destiny divine,And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:Heav'n-born, the Soul a heav'n-ward course must hold;Beyond the visible world She soars to seek,For what delights the sense is false and weak,Ideal Form, the universal mould.The wise man, I affirm, can find no restIn that which perishes: nor will he lendHis heart to aught which doth on time depend.'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,Even here below, but more in heaven above.
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