TO LADY A. I. N.
HE writes her poems, not in laboured verse,Carved, smoothed, and polished into faultless rule,—Not less a poet; though her muse rehearseSometimes in colour or she paint in fullThe thought created by the light, just seenOn ivied ruin, lonely tower, or hill,When shadows darken where its smile has been.Must poets always sing by rhythm,—willThe measured cadence ere the thought disperse?The sculptor carves his poem on the stone,And bids the chiselled marble breathe his verse;So poet, thou art in the painter shown;Thy genius knows no despot in her train,Nor will her varied impulses restrain.
