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Then men will grant that something there must be
In that immortal bondage more than shows,
And some pure convert, thinking upon me,
May turn to Love, believing ere he knows.
So help me, Love, for thine own credit's care,
And for the due recruiting of thy reign,
Help me, I say not, tranquilly to bear,
That were too much,—but patiently to feign!
THE DAISY IN THE SOUTH.
This, this a daisy! gayest flower
I left at home, yet meekest!
This flaunting flatterer of the hour,
Seen e'er thou seest or seekest;
A daisy this!—then call pretence
Reserve, call meekness impudence!
Thou foolish clime, that could'st betray
By pampering this beauty
The loveliest image which the day
Beheld of cheerful Duty;
