  POET. Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrine I lowly bend one simple wreath to twine; O come from thy ideal world and fling Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string; Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth The wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth— Happiness, when from earth she fled, I passed on her heaven-ward flight,— "Take this wreath," the spirit said, "And bathe it in floods of light; To the sons of sorrow this token give, And bid them follow my steps and live!" I took the wreath from her radiant hand, Each flower was a silver star; I turned this dark earth to a fairy land, When I hither drove my car; But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright, And man only saw its reflected light. Many a lovely dream I've given, And many a song divine, But never—oh never!—that wreath from heaven Shall mortal temples twine. 'Tis all too bright for a world of woe! POET. Hist—Beautiful spirit! why silent so soon? My soul drinks each word of thy magical tune; My lyre owns thy touch, and its tremulous strings Still vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings! Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part, Thy home, lovely spirit,—and say what thou art. FANCY. The gleam of a star which thou canst not see, Or an eye 'neath its sleeping lid, The tune of a far off melody, The voice of a stream that's hid; Such must I still remain to thee, A wonder and a mystery. I live in the poet's dream, I flash on the painter's eye, I dwell in the moon's pale beam, In the depths of the star-lit sky; I traverse the earth, the air, the main, And bind young hearts in my golden chain. I float on the crimson cloud, My voice is in every breeze, I speak in the tempest loud, In the sigh of the wind-stirred trees; To the sons of earth, in a magic tone, I tell of a world more bright than their own! |
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