Page:The Poems and Prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough, volume 2 (1869).djvu/41



panting sighs the bosom fill, And hands by chance united thrill At once with one delicious pain The pulses and the nerves of twain; When eyes that erst could meet with ease, Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun Extatic conscious unison,— The sure beginnings, say, be these Prelusive to the strain of love Which angels sing in heaven above?

Or is it but the vulgar tune, Which all that breathe beneath the moon So accurately learn—so soon? With variations duly blent; Yet that same song to all intent, Set for the finer instrument; It is; and it would sound the same In beasts, were not the bestial frame, Less subtly organised, to blame; And but that soul and spirit add To pleasures, even base and bad, A zest the soulless never had.

It may be—well indeed I deem; But what if sympathy, it seem, And, admiration and esteem, Commingling therewithal, do make The passion prized for Reason’s sake? Yet, when my heart would fain rejoice, A small expostulating voice