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239

XLVII. THE MANDATE.

O, my sweet spirit! to my sadness come;
Or, from the distant beauty of thy home,
Send me some comfort; for, indeed, my days
In the deep longing for immortal praise
Die mournfully: I tremble, sigh and weep;
And melancholy ghosts still haunt my sleep,
Of men whose tortures were high aspirations;
From which I wake to spectral contemplations
Of the dim future, and draw nothing thence
But unconvincing, shadowy conclusions;
Nor can the present firmer thoughts dispense;
And the dead time recedeth in delusions.
O, come! come sweetly; on my heart to lie,
Balming its depths with thy dear charity!
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