POESY.
Its sweetest song the cygnet sings
As a soft prelude to its death,
And in that song expends its breath;—
What boots it that the Poet flings
His wildest notes on high,
Or strikes with truest hand the strings,
If all his strains must die?
And why should he his notes prolong,
If no one listens to his song?
Yet can the Poet ne'er resign
The lyre he loves, for it alone
Consoles him, when all else is gone;
Its spirit, like the breath divine,
That stirred the water's face,
Pervades ev'n to the farthest line
Of universal space;
And music through the whole is flung,
As when the morning angels sung.
An echo lingers on each peak,
In every vale, on every hill—
Should men not listen, angels will;
For Poesy shall never speak,
Shall never sing in vain;
In solitude the breeze shall seek
And still repeat her strain,
Where'er, like an aërial tone,
Her spirit and her voice have gone.
She moves o'er flowers—her handmaid fair,
Bright Summer, in a joyous dance
Doth still before her path advance,
Sweet blossoms strewing every where,
Which, falling, grow divine;
Fresh incense crowds upon the air,
And floats above her shrine,
Like beauty, when her welcome voice
Makes the whole universe rejoice.
Why then should her adorer fear,
Or why her votary despond?—
Partaker of a bliss beyond
All feelings, all enjoyments here,
His impulses sublime
Soar, ev'n in this contracted sphere,
O'er nature and o'er time;
And her undying triumphs spread
A glow like glory round his head.