Samuel Taylor Coleridge — To Fortune

Promptress of unnumber'd sighs, O snatch that circling bandage from thine eyes! O look, and smile! No common prayer Solicits, Fortune! thy propitious care! For, not a silken son of dress, I clink the gilded chains of politesse, Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverish dream; Nor yet my view life's dazzle blinds— Pomp!—Grandeur! Power!—I give you to the winds! Let the little bosom cold Melt only at the sunbeam ray of gold— My pale cheeks glow—the big drops start— The rebel Feeling riots at my heart! And if in lonely durance pent, Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprisonment— That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound Leaps from its scrip with an elastic bound! But oh! if ever song thine ear Might soothe, O haste with fost'ring hand to rear One Flower of Hope! At Love's behest, Trembling, I plac'd it in my secret breast: And thrice I've view'd the vernal gleam, Since oft mine eye, with Joy's electric beam, Illum'd it—and its sadder hue Oft moisten'd with the Tear's ambrosial dew! Poor wither'd floweret! on its head Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed! But thou, O Fortune! canst relume Its deaden'd tints—and thou with hardier bloom May'st haply tinge its beauties pale, And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the western gale!