THOU fair enchantress of my willing heart,
Who charmest it to deep and dreary slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of revery!
Thou lovely siren, who, with still small voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea,
Or quaking sands of untried theory,
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway thro' the deep!
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone, yet not alone; though grave, most glad;
All silent outwardly, but loud within,
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answered it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And, taught by thee, angelic visitant,
Have I not learnt to love the tuneful lyre,
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind?
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,