Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And, oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh, yes, 'tis his!--thy other son; He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,--again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes; Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep, Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of Sleep, Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf-bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summon'd from the mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, Laid on the stormy Hebrides, Which on the mists of evening gleam, Or crowd the foaming desert stream; Lastly, her storied hand she waves, And lays him in Florentian caves; There milder fables, lovelier themes Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams; There Pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half-reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along th' embowering moon-light groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs; And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aërial music warbling round. Taste lastly comes, and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wonderous work is now complete. The Poet dreams:--the shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives--it lives--the canvass glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise, Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived. H. K. White.