Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/171

162

Spirit of delicious Song, To whom, as of true right, belong The myriad music notes that swell From the poet's breathing shell; We name thy name, and the heart springs Up to the lip, as if with wings, As if thy very motion brought Snatches of inspired thought.

Is it war? At once are borne Words like notes of martial horn. Is it love? Comes some sweet tale Like that of the nightingale. Is it Nature's lovely face? Rise lines touch'd with her own grace.