Sonnet XXIX

If Genius has its danger, grief and pain,

That Common-Sense escapes, yet who wou'd change

The Powers, thro' Nature, and thro' Art that range,

To keep the bounded, tho' more safe domain

Of moderate Intellect, where all we gain

Is cold approvance? where the sweet, the strange,

Soft, and sublime, in vivid interchange,

Nor glad the spirit, nor enrich the brain.

Destructive shall we deem yon noon-tide blaze

If transiently the eye, o'er-power'd, resign

Distinct perception?—Shall we rather praise

The Moon's wan light?—with owlish choice incline

That Common-Sense her lunar lamp shou'd raise

Than that the solar fires of Genius shine?