 | Italy and Other Poems |  |
224
TO JOANNA BAILLIE.
Sister of Shakspeare! so not wrongly nam'd:For his divinest spirit on thy birth
Look'd kindly down, revisitant on earth,
And with like fire thy kindred soul enflam'd.
Thou, too, Enchantress! with a sceptred hand
Beckon'st the Passions forth, and at thy call
Love, Hate, Ambition, rob'd in tragic pall,
Rise, and before thy throne, subservient, stand,
To do thy bidding.—Many a future age,
And bards unborn, shall, as thy strains inspire,
Weep o'er thy scenes, and catch from thee their fire.
Me, other thoughts, and milder scenes engage:
And as I share thy converse, gay and free,
And hear thy unambitious language mild,
I doubt how artless Nature's simple child
Can strike the chords that breathe sublimity,
And how the dove's smooth plumes, and level flight,
Can soar where eagle's sweep, and bathe their wings in light.
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