THE POET.
The poet walks entranced o'er earth,
And, dreaming, touches Nature's string's,
And calls grand harmonies to birth;
Men listen wond'ring as he sings.
He goeth oft to wild retreats,
Where Nature broods in solitude;
There, in the Muses' haunted seats,
Enrapt he stands—as if he view'd
Strange visions on the face of heav'n.
His eye rolls o'er the boundless blue,
And then, as if his sight had giv'n
Wings to his soul, he soareth through
Th' empyrean vault, and upward flies
To scan deep mysteries, unseen
By common souls, whose earth-bound eyes
Are blinded with the dazzling sheen
Of glorious light, tow'rds which he soars.
Or, stretch'd upon the lap of earth,
When Spring breathes o'er the myriad pores
Which pierce the soil, and giveth birth
To Nature's buried loveliness—
To flowers and leaves, and all things fair;
When the bright sun looks down to bless
His fruitful bride; when throbbing air,
Warm with the sunshine, dances bright
O'er hill and dale, o'er land and wave;
When birds, long dumb through Winter's night,
Returning, hail the dawn, which gave
