Seraphic intellect and force
    To seize and throw the doubts of man;
    Impassion’d logic, which outran
The hearer in its fiery course;

High nature amorous of the good,
    But touch’d with no ascetic gloom;
    And passion pure in snowy bloom
Thro’ all the years of April blood;

A love of freedom rarely felt,
    Of freedom in her regal seat
    Of England; not the schoolboy heat,
The blind hysterics of the Celt;

And manhood fused with female grace
    In such a sort, the child would twine
    A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine,
And find his comfort in thy face;

All these have been, and thee mine eyes
    Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain,
    My shame is greater who remain,
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.