HOUSE OF BONDAGE.

By Francis Thompson

When I perceive Love's heavenly reaping still

Regard perforce the clouds’ vicissitude,

That the fixed spirit loves not when it will,

But craves its seasons of the flawful blood;

When I perceive that the high poet doth

Oft voiceless stray beneath the uninfluent stars,

That even Urania of her kiss is loath,

And Song's brave wings fret on their sensual bars;

When I perceived the fullest-sail-ed sprite

Lag at most need upon the leth-ed seas,

The provident captainship oft voided quite,

And lam-ed lie deep-draughted argosies;

I scorn myself, that put for such strange toys

The wit of man to purposes of boys.

The spirit's ark sealed with a little clay,

Was old ere Memphis grew a memory;

The hand pontifical to break away

That seal what shall surrender? Not the sea

Which did englut great Egypt and his war,

Nor all the desert-drown-ed sepulchres.

Love's feet are stained with clay and travel-sore,

And dusty are Song's lucent wing and hairs.

O Love, that must do courtesy to decay,

Eat hasty bread standing with loins up-girt,

How shall this stead thy feet for their sore way?

Ah, Song, what brief embraces balm thy hurt!

Had Jacob's toil full guerdon, casting his

Twice-seven heaped years to burn in Rachel's kiss?