MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Thine but in visions of the silent night, When pure intelligence awakes alone, One moment flashes on the inward sight, Gives one blest thrill .of rapture, and is flown. It is because its power is all of mind, Whose beams for grosser sight too subtly dart, Which, ever-varying, cannot be defin'd, And mocks the painter's toil, the poet's art. And that !ov'd voice, whose accents now would steal In murmurs soft as Pity's melting sigh, And now, in varied melody, reveal Th' ingenuous warmth of native energy, In speaking, music, but in song, oh, more Than colder words imperfect can define! How oft officious Memory will restore Each other voice, but, oh, how seldom thine ! Inimitable thus by mortal skill Th'/Eolian notes in melting sweetness rise, Thus o'er the opal shift the colours still, And who can paint the restless, playful dies ......... ?Google
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