POESY.
Who saith that poesy waxeth old,
That all her legends were long since told?
It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a stream in its crystal hall,
A sprig of ivy to climb the wall,
A sun to rise, or a star to fall,
She'll find something new to describe, I know.
Who saith that her songs were long since sung,
And learn'd by rote when the world was young?
It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a blossom by summer drest,
A sigh for the sad, or a smile for the blest,
Or a changeful thought in the human breast,
There'll be a new string for her lyre, I trow.
What she was when the timbrel of Miriam rang,
When the sightless Homer to Helle sang,
Such, such is she now,—all fair and young.
Not a silver hair on her temples you trace;
Not a spot or wrinkle deform her face;
No dotage of time hath impair'd her grace,
Or check'd the flow of her tuneful tongue.
Do ye say she is poor, in this land of the free,
And that all her votaries are poor as she?
It may he so! it may be so!
Yet hath she a dowry most rich and proud,
A castle that floats on the crimson cloud,
Clear sunshine within, when the storm is loud,
And a shield of diamond to foil the foe.
Do ye say she is light in the world's esteem,—
Like a puff of air, or a fairy-dream?—
It may be so! it may be so!
Yet hath she an honour more high and dear,
From the burning lips of the heaven-taught seer,
From the harp of Zion that charm'd the ear;
From the choir where the seraph-minstrels glow.