ALMA SDEGNOSA

Not that dull spleen which serves i’ the world for scorn,

Is hers I watch from far off, worshipping

As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king

Adored the star that heralded the morn.

Her proud content she bears as a flag is borne

Tincted the hue royal; or as a wing

It lifts her soaring, near the daylight spring,

Whence, if she lift, our days must pass forlorn.

The pure deriving of her spirit-state

Is so remote from men and their believing,

They shrink when she is cold, and estimate

That hardness which is but a God's dismay:

As when the Heaven-sent sprite thro’ Hell sped cleaving,

Only the gross air checkt him on his way.