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.
'TIS evening, and the summer has put on Her richest dress, her way with flowers is strewed, Beauty and music dwell in every wood, And bower and meadow, hill and valley lone; A gentle shower is o'er, the earth has wept Its fragrance into freshness. In this hour,-- When in a flood of glory all is dipped, By the soft influence of a higher power,-- My spirit leaves its prison-house, and flies Towards the sweet haunts of thy pleasant home, Where, lover-like, thy river[1] loves to roam;-- 'Tis there I see thee with my mental eyes, And hold communion with thee day by day, Though now we never meet, and haply never may.
SLEEP, baby, sleep! Though thy fond mother's breast, Where thy young head reclines, Is a stranger to rest; And oh! may soft slumber Descend on thine e'e, That the sorrow she feels May be shared not by thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father has gone On his perilous track, And thy mother will weep, Till he safely comes back; But rest thee in peace, With soft sleep in thine e'e, Though the tear is in her's That is shared not by thee. Sleep, baby, sleep!