Page:Ambarvalia - Clough (1849).djvu/104

 And that night the Young-man, lying silent by his bride, Blasphemes the sacred fire of youth, that would not be denied: Cursing Nature, hating Love, creeps to Beauty's breast the brave, Whispering wildly, "Yet be fruitless,—son me never with a slave." Weeps long that swelling mother,—hides her glory as she can, Nor dare murmur "Noble husband, God hath owned thee for a Man!"

And Thought and Genius? What! think you that creatures stay In a prison's noisome narrows, who have wings to get away? On far Parisian garret-floors the alien tomes are spread, When the historian's magic eye would question with the dead; Feebly, by foreign breezes swept, the old Sicilian Tree Murmurs its near-forgotten trick of honeyed melody.