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THERE’S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be But concentrated by the chastened dreams Of constant hearts. Where’er the ministry Of beautiful Nature hath enhanced the themes Of some Petrarchian mind whose story gleams Within the Past like a moon-silvered sea, Or where grey Interest the spirit free Of faithful Love hath caged in iron schemes, Or round it stirr’d such dangers as o’erdrove Long Ruin’s storm at last—there evermore The very airs that whisper to the grove, The echo’s mystery and the streamlet’s lore Savour of Passion and transfusive pour Abroad suggestions to heroic Love. |