Of birds are living, her pure soul to greet.
And the lone spirit, thoughtfully that longs
For a dim view of Eden, from a seat
O'erhanging some green valley, now espies
Nought that might dread compare with Paradise!

There is a glory gone forth from on high!--
It quickens the heart's beat, whereon it flings
Its fervour;--the flushed cheek and glowing eye
Confess its influence;--and the many strings,
Voiceless too long in the young heart, reply
To the mute promptings of a thousand things
Which Spring has conjured up;--all, all is hers--
That Glory without name--she ministers.

Now--all the thoughts she wakens in the heart
Are glorious Music!--divine Poesy!--
Now--all the dreams on Fancy's eyes that start,
She will disown not, wayward though they be.
Sweet Dreams!--down Lethe's billow they depart--
Words are too weak to clothe them worthily.
Rich incense, burnt upon some altar stone
Censerless,--in a temple--desert--lone!

What shall we do in these delightful days,
When the full, bounding heart, will not be still;--
When the glad eye, absorbed in far-sent gaze,
Forgets Earth's plenitude of grief and ill;--
Shall we dream on, in a bewitching maze
Of sweet affections and bold hopes, until