The thought springs idly that love may be sold—
What! dare you bid our feelings all depart
And give for golden dross th' impassioned heart?
Go! tell the ocean when its billows roar
To rest in peace nor lash the sounding shore;
Go! when the winds are singing to the wave,
Bid them be hushed, and flee unto their cave;
Go! when the spirits of the storm on high
Drive their mad coursers through the blackening sky,
Bid them return, and measure back their way,
And they may hear your voices, and obey!—-
But oh! the heart enthralled can never be,
Lord of itself, created to be free!