CXXII.

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation:--where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreached Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs[500] the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?