University of Virginia Library

THE POET TO HIS SOUL.

O! spark divine, whose effluence bright
Illumes that intellectual sight
Which Nature's secret springs can view,
And, lynx-like pierce creation through;
O! breathing balm, whose sweetness heals
The wounds poor injur'd merit feels;
The gall of malice changes quite
To anodynes of pure delight.
O! lofty comfort, tow'ring high,
Beyond yon star-enamell'd sky,
Counting the brilliant glories there,
And purging error's clouds severe.
O! best inspirer, teaching all,
Constant, at whose nocturnal call
Entranc'd I wake, and converse hold
With shades that rul'd the world of old.
My muse, my portion of a god,
Though shrin'd in this unmeet abode,
This moving clay, this frail machine,
Seldom invok'd, and seldom seen,
Save by the visual ray of pray'r,
Pour'd on the purple wing of air
To Heav'n's high gate, where Pity stands,
With Vengeance chain'd in brazen bands;
Pity, whose soft and melting tone
Can enter on th' eternal throne,
And in soft plaintive notes of woe
Describe the sons of grief below!
O! thou, who still hast warm'd my heart,
And must, and can we ever part?
Must thou, lone pilgrim, darkling, dare
Countries unknown, all wild and bare;
Mid penal fires, affrighted stray,
Or soar along the milky way:
Delightful doubts! suspence sublime,
That trembling wait the seal of Time,
Of Time and Truth—Ecstatic tost,
In seas of fancy thou art lost!
Thy judgment reels, pale dread and gloom
Sink thee in black Oblivion's womb,
While with fresh palm bright Conscience crown'd,
Stands smiling at the grim profound.
In vain the shafts of Envy fly,
Revenge in vain new shafts supply:
Vague, ideot-babes, soon forc'd to yield,
They cannot pierce thy shadowy shield,
The sev'nfold gift of innocence
Warding all mortal aim from thence!
Let Want's cold grasp benumb this form,
Sieg'd by Oppression's wint'ry storm;
That form may feel the venom'd smart,
When tortures tear, but still thou art!
Safe on the gibbet or the rack,
Though the strong chords of nature crack;
Though demons crowd from flames to see
The pains of poor mortality;
And as they mark the bursting groan,
Return contented to their own!
Nor wealth, nor honours, would I take,
Thy union, priceless friend, to break;
Nor clog thy heav'nward plume, that springs
Far, far, beyond the bliss of kings,
Collecting, in thy mental roam,
Wonders, to glad thy earthly home;
And with the seraph throngs above
Exchanging amity and love.
Sweet commerce! where no oath is giv'n,
But reason weds the mind to Heav'n.
When on the beauteous bed of death,
Blest, I resign the guiltless breath,
Incense immaculate! still hang
Ambrosial on the parting pang,
Nor quit that fane thou lov'st on earth,
But bloom in an immortal birth.