 | Metrical essays |  |
107
ODE TO IMAGINATION.
I
O! thou, the mistress of the poet's dreams,Whose magic touch to rapture lifts his soul;
As to his vision'd eye
Thy fairy world's displayed!
II
By thee inspired he tracks remotest wilds,Searches the treasured bosom of the deep,
Mounts to the glowing stars,
And treads the jasper skies!
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III
Thou, whose sylph form in brilliancy attired,Upon the pearly beams of the young moon
Frolicks in gay disport;
Imagination, hail!
IV
Goddess who lov'st, besides some warbling fount,To gaze upon the crimson tissued clouds,
While night, in sable pomp,
Veils slow the lovely scene.
V
Or 'mid the lightning's glare—and thunder's peal—To climb the summit of the craggy cliff,
Meanwhile the foaming waves
Are battling with the storm:
VI
'Tis thou who mirror'st to the lover's eyes,Ideal scenes of happiness and bliss;
Bright as that wintry gem
Which glows—then melts in tears!
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VII
Or as the earliest promises of springFirst smile beneath the hawthorn's budding boughs;
But, ah! too soon to fade—
To perish ere matured!
VIII
In night's mid-noon—when fierce Bellona's trumpHath sounded a retreat—while earth is drench'd
In human gore, and man
Grows tired with massacre,
IX
Thou tread'st the blood-warm plain, not'st the pale formsWhich lie in grisly heaps—the frenzied eye
Which rolls in bitter anguish—
And the despairing groan:—
X
From thence to brighter scenes—'neath Dian's beamsWhere, swiftly gliding o'er the curling waves,
The zendaletto bears
The amorous gondolier,
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XI
Under the lattice of the beauteous maidWhose virgin charms his youthful heart hath won;
And in her list'ning ear
He pours his ardent tale.
XII
O! born of Pœon—light of sweetest bards,Benignant grant his early prayer, who thus,
A pilgrim at thy shrine,
In adoration bends;
XIII
Instruct his hand to strike with skill the lyre,To tune to pleasing melody its tones;
And, as thy form he views,
To realms of beauty lead!
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