Page:Poems Douglas.djvu/199

But now a being stood before his sight,
 With wavy ringlets glittering round her head,
And figure decked in robes of floating light,
 Which round her form a sacred halo shed.

She seemed at once to please and to command,
 So dignified the witching smile she wore;
A golden lyre she held in her right hand,
 And in her left a fadeless wreath she bore.
Amazed, he started from his leafy bed,
 And solemnly before her bent the knee—
"Who art thou, glorious visitant?" he said,
 "Or on what mission comest thou to me?

"Art thou the beauteous guardian of these bowers?
 Or a bright wing'd inhabitant of light,
Come down with rainbow-tints to paint the flowers,
 And scatter dew-drops 'neath the shades of night?"
She, smiling, placed the chaplet on his head—
 "I the refined and melting thought inspire!
Lo! I have crown'd thee Minstrel now," she said,
 "Wear the green diadem, and strike the lyre.

"Yes, strike the lyre, and let the trembling chords
 Give to the listning world each burning theme;
Pour out thy lofty soul in glowing words,
 And let thy country glory in thy name."
The minstrel raised the lyre, and swept the strings,
 First with a gentle and a timid hand,
Then bolder and more perfect music springs,
 And melting strains are wafted o'er the land.