MORN on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews That freshen Beauty's flower. Then from her bower of deep delight, I heard a young girl sing, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on with heaving breast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil, Unpitied and unblest; Yet still in trembling measures flow'd Forth from a broken string, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." 'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 'Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere; Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread The waiting Angel's wing, "Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For 'tis a holy thing." |