On seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair

Chief of organic numbers!

                        Old Scholar of the Spheres!

                  Thy spirit never slumbers,

                        But rolls about our ears,

                  For ever and for ever!

                  O what a mad endeavour

                                          Worketh he,

Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse

Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse

                                          And melody.

How heavenward thou soundest,

                        Live Temple of sweet noise,

                  And Discord unconfoundest,

                        Giving Delight new joys,

                  And Pleasure nobler pinions!

                  O, where are thy dominions?

                                          Lend thine ear

To a young Delian oath,—ay, by thy soul,

By all that from thy mortal lips did roll,

And by the kernel of thine earthly love,

Beauty, in things on earth, and things above,

                                          I swear!

                  When every childish fashion

                        Has vanish'd from my rhyme,

                  Will I, grey-gone in passion,

                        Leave to an after-time,

                              Hymning and harmony

Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life;

But vain is now the burning and the strife,

Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife

                  With old Philosophy,

And mad with glimpses of futurity!

For many years my offering must be hush'd;

      When I do speak, I 'll think upon this hour,

Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd.

      Even at the simplest vassal of thy power,—

            A lock of thy bright hair—

            Sudden it came,

And I was startled, when I caught thy name

            Coupled so unaware;

Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood.

I thought I had beheld it from the flood.