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As sigh with supple wind
Or answer artful touch
That they convene and come away
To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day.
And every sweet-lipp'd thing
Start into life, and leap with me
Into a hasty fit-tun'd harmony.
Nor must you think it much
I have authority, in love's name, to take you
Of Him who never sleeps, all things that are,-
Answer my call,
And come along;
Help me to meditate mine immortal song.
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth!
Bring all the store
Of sweets you have; and murmur that you have no more. Come, ne'er to part,
Nature and Art!
Come; and come strong,
To the conspiracy of our spacious song.
Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise ;
Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise,
Solicitors of souls or ears:
And when you are come, with all
That you can bring or we can call,
Oh may you fix
For ever here, and mix
And everlasting series of a deathless song;-
And loose them into one, of love.
Cheer thee, my heart!
For thou too hast thy part,
And place, in the great throng
Of this unbounded all-embracing song.
And speak aloud
To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name,
The name of your delights and our desires,
And fit it to so far inferior lyres.
Our murmurs have their music too,
Ye mighty orbs! as well as you;
Of warbling seraphim, to th' ears of love,
And we, low worms, have leave to do
The same bright business, ye third heav'ns! with you.
We will have care
To keep it fair,
And send it back to you again.
Come, lovely name! appear from forth the bright
Regions of peaceful light;
Look from thine own illustrious home,
Fair King of names, and come:
Leave all thy native glories in their gorgeous nest,
And give thyself awhile the gracious guest
Of humble souls, that seek to find
The hidden sweets
Which man's heart meets
When thou art master of the mind.
Dearest sweet, and come away.
Lo, how the thirsty lands
Gasp for thy golden showers, with long stretch'd hands!
Lo, how the labouring earth
That hopes to be
All heaven by thee,
Leaps at thy birth!
The attending world, to wait thy rise,
And then, not knowing what to do,
Oh, come away
And kill the death of this delay.
Oh see, so many worlds of barren years
To catch the daybreak of the dawn.
And know what sweets are suck'd from out it.
By which they thrive,
Where all their hoard of honey lies.
Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's
Unfold thy fair conceptions;
The birth of our bright joys.
Oh, thou compacted
Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted!
Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us
Oh, fill our senses, and take from us
All force of so profane a fallacy,
To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.
And thy nectareal fragrancy,
Hourly there meets
An universal synod of all sweets;
That no perfume
For ever shall presume
But such alone whose sacred pedigree
Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee.
Sweet name, in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
The soul, that tastes thee, takes from thence.
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
To awake them,
And to take them
Home, and lodge them in his heart.
Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,
When thy old friends of fire, all full of thee,
Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase
To persecutions; and against the face
Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave
And sober pace march on to meet a grave.
On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee,
In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach thee. Little, alas! thought they
Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
Their fury but made way
For thee, and served them in thy glorious ends.
More freely to transpire
That impatient fire
The heart that hides thee hardly covers?
Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,
And re-enthroned thee in thy rosy nest,
With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning:
It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds
Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored name!
For sure there is no knee
That knows not thee;
Or if there be such sons of shame,
When stubborn rocks shall bow,
And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,
And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty.
They that by love's mild dictate now
Will not adore thee,
Shall then, with just confusion, bow
And break before thee.