Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move, That from thy presence their existence took:-- The innocent idolatry and love, Paying thee worship in each secret nook, That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook, Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile, And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind. Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile, Yet not entirely root them from the mind; I think I hear them still, and often look behind. Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind, As if commending what I sung to thee; Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined, Kindling my fancies into poesy; I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me. In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest; I thought the very clouds around thee knelt: I saw the sun to linger in the west, Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt. Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung, Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung, Are the young fancies of a poet’s love. When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move. In floating melody no notes may sound, The world is all forgot and past his care, While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound, As winning him its melody to share; And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there? E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and all The gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing; E’en now those sunny visions to recall, Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing: Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string. Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream, If earthly visions have been only mine, My weakness in thy service woos esteem, And proves my truth as almost worthy thine: Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine. And still, warm courage, calming many a fear, Heartens my hand once more thy harp to try To join the anthem of the minstrel year: For summer’s music in thy praise is high; The very winds about thy mantle sigh Love-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be, Insects and birds, exerting all their skill, Float in continued song for mastery, While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill, To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still? There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey, To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night; And there I see thee, in the sunny day, Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light; Burning my fancies with a wild delight, To win a portion of thy blushing fame. Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small, And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim, Should but a portion of thy mantle fall O’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.