To a Lady Who Spoke Slightingly of Poets.

Oh, censure not the Poet's art,

Nor think it chills the feeling heart

To love the gentle Muses.

Can that which in a stone or flower,

As if by transmigrating power,

His gen'rous soul infuses;

Can that for social joys impair

The heart that like the lib'ral air

All Nature's self embraces;

That in the cold Norwegian main,

Or mid the tropic hurricane

Her varied beauty traces;

That in her meanest work can find

A fitness and a grace combin'd

In blest harmonious union,

That even with the cricket holds,

As if by sympathy of souls,

Mysterious communion;

Can that with sordid selfishness

His wide-expanded heart impress,

Whose consciousness is loving;

Who, giving life to all he spies,

His joyous being multiplies,

In youthfulness improving?

Oh, Lady, then, fair queen of Earth,

Thou loveliest of mortal birth,

Spurn not thy truest lover;

Nor censure him whose keener sense

Can feel thy magic influence

Where nought the world discover;

Whose eye on that bewitching face

Can every source unnumber'd trace

Of germinating blisses;

See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave

The lily-fibred film, and leave

It fix'd with honied kisses;

While some within thy liquid eyes,

Like minnows of a thousand dies

Through lucid waters glancing,

In busy motion to and fro,

The gems of diamond-beetles sow,

Their lustre thus enhancing;

Here some, their little vases fill'd

With blushes for thy cheek distill'd

From roses newly blowing,

Each tiny thirsting pore supply;

And some in quick succession by

The down of peaches strewing;

There others who from hanging bell

Of cowslip caught the dew that fell

While yet the day was breaking,

And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse

The tincture — still its glowing hues

Of purple morn partaking:

Here some, that in the petals prest

Of humid honeysuckles, rest

From nightly fog defended,

Flutter their fragrant wings between,

Like humming-birds that scarce are seen,

They seem with air so blended!

While some, in equal clusters knit.

On either side in circles flit,

Like bees in April swarming,

Their tiny weight each other lend,

And force the yielding cheek to bend,

Thy laughing dimples forming.

Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye

Can only outward charms espy,

Thy form alone adoring —

Ah, Lady, no: though fair they be.

Yet he a fairer sight may see,

Thy lovely soul exploring:

And while from part to part it flies

The gentle Spirit he descries,

Through every line pursuing;

And feels upon his nature shower

That pure, that humanizing power,

Which raises by subduing.