Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/80

 Away, my soul, away! In vain, in vain the Birds of warning sing— And hark! I hear the famish'd brood of prey Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind! Away, my soul, away! I unpartaking of the evil thing, With daily prayer and daily toil Soliciting for food my scanty soil, Have wailed my country with a loud Lament. Now I recenter my immortal mind In the deep sabbath of meek self-content; Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim God's Image, sister of the Seraphim.