Page:Literary Magnet 1826.pdf/2



is a dear and lovely power Dwells in the silence of the flower, When the buds meet the caress Of the bee in their loneliness:— In the song the green leaves sing When they waken and wave in spring; In the voice of the April bird— The first air music the year hath heard; In the deep and glorious light Of the thousand stars at night; In the dreaming of the moon, Bright in her solitary noon; In the tones of the plaining brook; In the light of a first-love look; In each bright and beautiful thing With aught of fine imagining, That power is dwelling. Now need I Name the bright spell of Poesy? And, graceful Bard, it has breathed on thee A breath of the life, which is melody, And given thy lute the touching strain Which the heart but hears to echo again! Mine is not the hand that flings Living or lasting offerings: Wear thy laurel—not mine the lay That either gives or takes away. Others may praise thy harp,—for me To praise, were only mockery; The tribute I offer is such a one, As the young bird would pour if the sun Or the air were pleasant: thanks, not praise,— Oh, not to laud, but to feel thy lays! L. E. L.