Poetry
With that delicious phrenzy which it loves,
It raving reels, to very rapture pleased,—-
And then through all creation wildly roves:
Now in the deep recesses of the sea,
And now to highest Himalay it mounts;
Now by the fragrant shores of Araby,
Or classic Greece, or sweet Italia's founts,
Or through her wilderness of ruins;—now
Gazing on beauty's lip, or valour's brow;
Or rivalling the nightingale and dove
In pouring fourth its melody of love;
Or giving to the gale, in strains of fire,
Immortal harpings—like a seraph's lyre.
February, 1827.