by Eliza Acton

Eliza Acton

The second, with a brow serenely calm,
And eye of inspiration, is the child,
The favour'd child of Song, and o'er his lyre
The Spirit of sweet Poesy hath breath'd
Her holiest spell, making its ev'ry tone
A wonder, and delight.-Whether he pour
The fulness of his melody to her,
Th' enthron'd, but pallid Princess of the Night;
Or to the diamond-fires which gem the sky
When she hath veil'd her beauty; or doth sing
The secrets of the radiant caves, which lie
Deep, deep enshrin'd within old Ocean's breast,
Peopled with spirits-he doth shed o'er all
The living light of genius-but the swell
Of his harmonious lyre ne'er charms as when
Its breathings are of Love,-etherial Love,
In its first starry dawning: he doth wake
The deep, and passionate strain, as one whose heart
Sends forth its own o'er mast'ring feelings with
The music of his numbers, which to us
Steal so deliciously! The mountain-path
Which he is treading now, will soon lead on
Ev'n to the templed summit where Fame dwells,
And crowds shall render homage to his name
Whom yet they know not.-Fortune! mar not thou
Prospects, as those of summer-mornings, bright.

Last updated January 14, 2019