Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/70

70 That inborn lustre of the mind, Electric genius, bright and free, That diamond of a world refined, Say,—who would dream to find in thee?

True,—mocking nature bids to gush Thy boiling founts from frozen veins, And red volcanic splendors rush Terrific o'er thine ice-clad plains,— But who, amid thy dwindled race Such sport sublime would hope to see?— Who mid thy moral desert trace Such contradicting majesty?

Yet Thule!—like that summit dread Where Hecla lights his torch of fire, Thine own Thorlasken lifts his head, And nobly rules a master's lyre. The melody of Milton's strains He with adventurous skill essays, And boldly o'er thine awe-struck plains The pomp of angel war arrays.

Great bard!—whose outward eye was sealed That holier light within might beam, Who to the prompting muse did'st yield The fervor of thy nightly dream, Say,—could thy prophet glance descry What realms remote should seek thy shrine? What barbarous tongues to thee reply? What tuneful harps be waked by thine?