With thee conversing, I forget all time; 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Milton. 
Love is a region full of fires, 
And burning with extreme desires; 
An object seeks, of which possest, 
The wheels are still, the motions re3t, 
The flames in ashes lie opprest; 
The meteor, striving high to rise. 
The fuel spent, falls down and dies. 
Beaumont. 
What scenes appear where’er I turn my view I 
The dear ideas, where’er I fly, pursue, 
Rise in the grave, before the altar rise, 
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. 
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, 
Thy image steals between my God and me; 
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, 
With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, 
And swelling organs lift the rising soul, 
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, 
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: 
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned, 
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. 
Pope. 
