 | The Visionary |  |
183
SONNET. I.
Perchance we all in something strive to excel—How oft in miserable vanities!
Yet still to reach the goal, to snatch the prize
Our Souls are bent—and we for ever dwell
(Constrained as 't were by some dim mystic spell,)
In artificial atmosphere—we rise
To build our tottering Babels to the skies—
Which one breath can demolish—can dispel—
And as we see them shaken, bowed, and crushed,
We groan in anguish—yet with deeper will,
Rush to our fate—as we before had rushed,
And court the consequence of deeper Ill!—
Oh! that our throbbing hearts could but be hushed,
Or that we thus might strive our duties to fulfil!
| The Visionary | |