POETICAL PORTRAITS. SHAKSPEARE. His was the wizard spell MILTON. His spirit was the home Of aspiration high! A temple, whose huge dome Was hidden in the sky. THOMSON. The Seasons, as they roll, Shall bear thy name along, And, graven on the soul Of Nature, live thy song. GRAY. Soaring on pinions proud, The lightnings of his eye Scar the black thunder-cloud, He passes swiftly by. BURNS. He seized his country's lyre, With ardent grasp and strong, And made his soul of fire Dissolve itself in song. SOUTHEY. Where Necromancy flings O'er Eastern lands her spell, Sustained on Fable's wings, His spirit loves to dwell. COLERIDGE. Magician, whose dread spell, From superstition's cell Invokes each satellite ! WORDSWORTH. He hung his harp upon And, placed by Nature's throne, CAMPBELL. With all that Nature's fire Can lend to polished art, SCOTT. He sings, and lo! Romance Starts from its mouldering urn, While Chivalry's bright lance And nodding plumes return. WILSON. His strains like holy hymn Or voice of cherubim In mountain vale remote. HEMANS. To bid the big tear start Unchallenged from its shrine, And thrill the quivering heart With pity's voice, are thine. SHELLEY. A solitary rock In a far distant sea, Rent by the thunder's shock, An emblem stands of thee! HOGG. Clothed in the rainbow's beam, 'Mid strath and pastoral glen, He sees the fairies gleam Far from the haunts of men. BYRON. Black clouds his forehead bound, MOORE. Crowned with perennial flowers, POETRY EVERY WHERE. THERE'S poetry among the rocks, That flows from springing fountains. And all is wondrous fair, For He who built the heavenly dome There's poetry in the deep vale, Where the mineral water gushes, And the crimson flowers in sunny bowers Reflect the morning blushes. And there, in silence and in shade, Nature is passing fair; For He who made the beauteous world Is always present there. The forest is all poetry, Where the honey bees are singing, And the golden spider his bower of love, 'Neath the green branch, is spinning. And the rosy morn and purple eve The umbrageous herbage share, For He who lit the soft, pale moon, Is always present there. There's poetry on the deep sea, Where the mountain waves are roaring; And the young billows clap their hands, Rejoicing and adoring. And the phosph'rous sea and ocean's caves For He who made the mighty winds There's poetry in the dark clouds, Where the chain-lightning 's flaming; For He who forged the thundrous bolt There's poetry among the winds, Where they kiss the spring's first flowers; |