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Thy slave, if e'er the Power were such
To aught of mortal birth that came.
Faint as a city of the air
In seeming, delicately fair
In colour as the flowers of Spring,
Thou risest, an enchanted thing,
A pomp—a play-work of the cloud
To which the hills this lovely plain
Spread out, scarce hoping to retain!
Silent, yet longing to rejoice aloud!
Fair all the scene in which I stand;
I sing—so Fancy doth command;
—But I am in a foreign land.
TO THE SAME.
June, 1848.
Once before this, ye sovran pines,
When with a mighty wave ye swung,
A thousand to one impulse flung
Adown one wind, in trembling lines
Your might I honoured, feebly sung
