OF POETIC CHARACTER. On summer eve, in Ismbent stream, Can rouse the tempest's fatal Maze. But, oh, what storm shall Fancy tlnd, To image that within his mind ?- Continual war of soul, and senses Eternal tortures, that condense (To rack the struggling breast, they seize) At once their thous?md energies. Now with Nature's wonders blending, And to heav'uly heights aseendiug, Still feeling, oh, a nameless dearth Of somewhat unattain'd on earth ? Then downward hurl'd--alas, how far !- Like the bright lapse of glancing star, Which holds on high it's short career, Quench'd in our grosser atmosphere. 'Till, maddening, he would feign deny The deity, he cannot fly, And, despairing to obey, Dares, in impious pride, rebel, And, hopeless of the purer way, In splendid wickedness excel. 8iuce he may not be rever'd, He will not be despis'd, but fear'd; Orand in the very depths of crime, Full'n, yet angelic--ruin'd, yet sublime. ......... ?Google
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