Fair and lovely maid, look from the shore,
See thy Leander striving in these waves,
Poor soul forespent, whose force can do no more:
Now send forth hopes, for now calm pity saves.
And waft him to thee with those lovely eyes,
A happy convoy to a holy land;
Now show thy power and where thy virtue lies;
To save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand.
Stretch out the fairest hand a pledge of peace,
That hand that darts so right and never misses;
I'll not revenge old wrongs; my wrath shall cease;

Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,
Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart
Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart,
And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race.

But finding these north climes do coldly him embrace,
Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part
Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art:
At length he perch'd himself in Stella's joyful face,

Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow,

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain!
Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near,
That shall remunerate thy toils severe

Sweet Peace! ah, lead me from the thorny dale,
Where desolate my wand'ring steps have fled;
Far from the sunny paths which others tread,
While youth enlivens, and while joys prevail.
Then I no more shall vanished hopes bewail,
No more the fruitless tear shall love to shed,
When pensive eve her cherish'd gloom has spread,
And day's bright tints, like my short pleasures, fail!
Yet lead me not where blooms the glowing rose,
But lead me where the cypress branches wave;
Thou hast a shelt'ring cell for cureless woes,

Truce, gentle Love, a parley now I crave;
Methinks 'tis long since first these wars begun;
Nor thou nor I the better yet can have;
Bad is the match where neither party won.
I offer free conditions of fair peace,
My heart for hostage that it shall remain;
Discharge our forces, here let malice cease,
So for my pledge thou give me pledge again.
Or if no thing but death will serve thy turn,
Still thirsting for subversion of my state,
Do what thou canst, rase, massacre, and burn;
Let the world see the utmost of thy hate;

Drawn by th'attractive virtue of her eyes,
My touch'd heart turns it to that happy coast;
My joyful North, where all my fortune lies,
The level of my hopes desired most.
There where my Delia , fairer than the Sun,
Deckt with her youth whereon the world smileth,
Joys in that honor which her beauty won,
Th'eternal volume which her fame compileth.
Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the North,
Neptune's darling held between his arms,
Divided from the world as better worth,
Kept for himself, defended from all harms.

Calling to mind, since first my love begun,
Th'uncertain times oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly have run,
As it please the Fates, by their resistless force.
Lastly mine eyes amazedly have seen
Essex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain;
The quiet end of that long-living Queen;
This King's fair entrance; and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever.
Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel;
Yet to my Goddess am I constant ever,
Howe'er blind Fortune turn her giddy wheel.

Up at his attic sill the South wind came
And days of sun and storm but never peace.
Along the town's tumultuous arteries
He heard the heart-throbs of a sentient frame:
Each night the whistles in the bay, the same
Whirl of incessant wheels and clanging cars:
For smoke that half obscured, the circling stars
Burnt like his youth with but a sickly flame.
Up to his attic came the city cries --
The throes with which her iron sinews heave --
And yet forever behind prison doors
Welled in his heart and trembled in his eyes

Peace is happiness, but war is our plight
Under the heavens. He -- prince of the night,
Severe captain-- and the World's vanity
Work for our corruption diligently.


Not enough is this, mighty Lord of all!
The Body, our home for fleeting pleasures,
Envies heedlessly the Spirit's treasures
Constantly craving our eternal fall.


How shall I wage a battle so terrible,
Frail, yet headstrong, a soul in isolation?
King Universal, Peace most veritable,
In Thee alone is hope of my salvation!

So take my vows and scatter them to sea;
Who swears the sweetest is no more than human.
And say no kinder words than these of me:
"Ever she longed for peace, but was a woman!
And thus they are, whose silly female dust
Needs little enough to clutter it and bind it,
Who meet a slanted gaze, and ever must
Go build themselves a soul to dwell behind it."

For now I am my own again, my friend!
This scar but points the whiteness of my breast;
This frenzy, like its betters, spins an end,
And now I am my own. And that is best.