Charles Brooks

fear no devil, believe no hell;
But with my fear all joy is gone,
All rare conceit of wisdom won;

welled with prophetic joy to leave its sphere,
And live a spirit with spirits, their rightful peer.
Where art thou, Faust?

And what men call the spirit of the age,
Is but the spirit of the gentlemen
Who glass their own thoughts in the pliant page,
And image back themselves.