Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/196

 Beat it to Earth? or with indignant grief Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud? Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine And mock my boding! Dim similitudes Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour From anxious, Life's cruel Task-Master! And the warm wooings of this sunny day Tremble along my frame and harmonize Th' attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.