A sound more touching than the wild guitar's, Heard o'er the waters, on their lips awoke; Which did my ear in such sweet music steep, That my charm'd spirit could not choose but weep.

v.

And then, methought, the Muse, (whom I adore,) In that wild dream was standing by my side, Who in her radiant hand a garland bore

Of all sweet flowers which Nature's hand hath

dyed

And Nature's breath perfumed :-rich gems whose

worth

Decks the maternal bosom of the earth.

VI.

Methought the Muse laugh'd archly in my face

As she presented that fair wreath: "And now," Quoth she, "Sir Poet, 'tis thy task to place

My sacred garland on the worthiest brow Of all that float, to-night, before thine eye, In this so fair and gentle company.

VII.

"Oh! pure and holy must the maiden be,

Whose brow may be encircled by that wreath, Twined near the living spring of Castaly,

When the world's eye was slumber-seal'd-be

neath

The cold, calm gaze of the Queen-Moon, whose look No dream impure, no tainted thought, can brook.

VIII.

"And (for the Muses wove it) she must bear

The Muses' lightning in her radiant eyes,

Which (though most mirthful) must have tears to

spare,

In graver moods, to gentlest sympathies ; She must be wise, imaginative, fair :Now say what brow shall this bright garland wear.

IX.

It was an awful thing, (as ye may guess,
Fair Ladies,) to behold those visions bright,
Which swam, encircled in such loveliness

As Spirits dream of, in my dazzled sight;
Seeking the worthiest forehead among them
Whose worst was worthy of a diadem.

X.

And first two fair-hair'd sisters side by side
I saw the graceful leaders of the dance:
Of gentle aspect, mild, and thoughtful-eyed;
And as I gazed on either countenance
Almost I deem'd that they that wreath might share,
And yet I felt a worthier brow was there.

XI.

Next pass'd a delicate form, in whose deep eyes
Beam'd the tranquillity of wedded love;
Follow'd by one who, in more mirthful guise,
Did like a spirit of the breezes move.
Each was unutterably fair-and yet,
I knew for neither was that coronet.

XII.

And then came one, the Fairy of the Hills,

With open brow and laughter-loving eye,

And voice whose sound was as the sound of rills Gushing at summer-noon refreshingly;

And she bent on me her bright, laughing eyes,
As if, almost she would demand the prize,

XIII.

But felt that one was worthier. Then there came A grave-eyed maiden of most gentle mien, Whose looks, elate with triumph, seem'd to claim, Not for herself, the glory of the scene,

But for some honour'd friend.—As on she pass'd Rose three bright forms-the loveliest and the last.

XIV.

One was array'd in the last splendid gleam

Of parting childhood; on the verge she stood Of that sweet age, when life's first fairy dream Dissolves into the dawn of womanhood. And to her soul's young gaze were still unfurl'd Those radiant glimpses of an earlier world.

XV.

The next had riper years; no longer child,

And yet scarce woman; restless was her eye, And never, never hath on poet smiled

A look more full of youthful ecstasy. It seem'd those wandering orbs could scarce repress The springing tears of the soul's happiness.

XVI.

But who is she, the last of that fair band ?-
Methinks the room grows bright as she advances,
As from the touch of an enchanter's wand;
And oh! what aspect can endure the glances,
The piercing glances of those sunny eyes,
Lit by gay dreams and rapturous phantasies?

XVII.

On as she came, methought wild strains were heard
Of such sweet music, that my garland bent
Its quivering leaves, and every flow'ret stirr'd
And trembled in that sudden ravishment,
As if the Spring-breeze kiss'd it-This is She,
The child of Genius and of Poesy.

XVIII.

Her Spirit was upon me, and I felt

The might, and gentleness, and majesty Which in that fair and wild-eyed maiden dwelt; And, in my dream, I hasten'd joyfully

To bind her forehead with the wreath divineWhose was that forehead, * ***, whose but thine?

Jan. 1822.

THE MANIAC.

THEY say that the light of her eyes is gone,
That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan;
That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild,
Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child.

For the melting glance of her soft blue eye
Is chill'd by cold insanity;

And the beauty that her bright form wore,
Is the shrine of a living soul no more.

And her words discourse not music sent
From reason's govern'd instrument;
But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray,

Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play.

I would not look on her alter'd brow,
Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now;
I would not view her pale, pale cheek,
Nor hear her, in her madness, speak ;

Nor see her smile, she knows not why,
While her tears flow down unmeaningly ;
Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token
Of a brain o'er-wrought, and a young heart broken;

No-on these things I would not look,
For the brightest gift in Fortune's book;
For she was join'd with the fairest things
That rose in my youth's imaginings.

And oh! how oft have I turn'd away
From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay,
That my soul might drink, to sweet excess,
The light of her pensive loveliness.

But her languid eye shall charm no more,—
Her smiles and her tears-they are nearly o'er;
For fond hopes lost, and a heart o'er-laden,
Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.

1822.