Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne My father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand, To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled land Of rhyme--its Lares loftily forlorn, With all their pure humanities unworn-- To batten on the bare Theologies! To quench a glory lighted at the skies, Fed on one essence with the silver morn, Were of all blasphemies the most insane. So deeplier given to the delicious spell I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy! Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy pain I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry, Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?