WHEN through the nations stalks
We from them cautiously should
E'en I have oft with ling'ring
Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd.
And e'en though Amor oft my hours
At length with him preferr'd I
not to play,
And so, too, with the wretched
sons of clay,
When four and three-lined verses they compil'd.
But punishment pursues the scoffer
As if by serpent-torch of furies
From bill to vale, from
land to sea to fly.
I hear the genie's laughter at
Yet do I find all power of thinking
In sonnet-rage and love's
Sea Of Tranquility