There’s a rare Soul of Poesie which may be
But concentrated by the chastened Dream
Of constant Hearts. Where’er the ministry
Of beautiful Nature hath enchanced the themes
Of some Petrarchian mind, whose story gleams
Within the Past like a moon-silvered sea;
Or where grey Interest the Spirit free
Of Faithful Love hath caged in iron schemes,
Or round it stirr’d such dangers as o’er drove
The Storm of Ruin at last;—there evermore,
The very Airs that whisper to the Grove,
The Echo’s mystery, and the Streamlet’s lore,
Savour of Passion, and transfusive, pour
Abroad suggestions to Heroic Love.
Other works by Charles Harpur...
