Oh! that the Chemist’s magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from CHLOE’S eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell— The spring of Sensibility! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly’st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude controul Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. The sage’s and the poet’s theme, In every clime, in every age; Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream, In Reason’s philosophic page. That very law[1] which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course. [1] The law of Gravitation. TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.[1] Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor? Aëris et lingua sum filia; Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.—AUSONIUS. Once more, Enchantress of the soul, Once more we hail thy soft controul. —Yet whither, whither did’st thou fly? To what bright region of the sky? Say, in what distant star to dwell? (Of other worlds thou seemst to tell) Or trembling, fluttering here below, Resolv’d and unresolv’d to go, In secret didst thou still impart Thy raptures to the Pure in heart? Perhaps to many a desert shore, Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore; Thy broken murmurs swept along, Mid Echoes yet untun’d by song; Arrested in the realms of Frost, Or in the wilds of Ether lost. Far happier thou! ’twas thine to soar, Careering on the winged wind. Thy triumphs who shall dare explore? Suns and their systems left behind. No tract of space, no distant star, No shock of elements at war, Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire Bore thee amidst the Cherub-choir; And there awhile to thee ’twas giv’n Once more that Voice[2] belov’d to join, Which taught thee first a flight divine, And nurs’d thy infant years with many a strain from Heav’n! [1] In the winter of 1805. [2] The late Mrs. Sheridan’s. FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O fly—yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES, COMMONLY CALLED THE TORSO.