TO LADY A. I. N.
HE writes her poems, not in laboured verse,Carved, smoothed, and polished into faultless rule,—
Not less a poet; though her muse rehearse
Sometimes in colour or she paint in full
The thought created by the light, just seen
On ivied ruin, lonely tower, or hill,
When shadows darken where its smile has been.
Must poets always sing by rhythm,—will
The measured cadence ere the thought disperse?
The sculptor carves his poem on the stone,
And bids the chiselled marble breathe his verse;
So poet, thou art in the painter shown;
Thy genius knows no despot in her train,
Nor will her varied impulses restrain.
