Poems (Frances Elizabeth Browne)/On poetry
ON POETRY.
Spirit of poetry, 't is thineTo soothe, exalt us, and refine;Yet 't is not when thy numbers chime,Like tinkling bells, in changeless rhyme,Unmeaning words, though sweet their sound,—'T is not by these thy temple 's crowned!No! sentiments that easy flow,Enriched by genuine feeling's glow,Or sparkling with wit's vivid fire,Or, boldly daring to aspireOn nobler wings and loftier, verseTo higher themes of virtue nurse,With Milton following, soaring fancy's flight,Singing of chaos and eternal night,— Of rebel angels cast from heaven's high state,—Of bliss, to the utmost verge of hell's most dreadful fate,—Of man's creation, happiness, and fall,Through Satan, the dire enemy of all,Yet most himself since when he vainly thoughtTo ruin what the Godhead latest wrought;—His vile design against Heaven's favorite, man,Was overruled by that amazing planWhich ages after was fulfilled on earthIn the glad tidings of the Saviour's birth!And, while transcendent mercy was extolled,The guilt on Satan's head was recompensed tenfold;—Or, with immortal Young, in night's still silent reign,By reason's steady light pursue a trainOf solemn thought, which nature's sleep inspires,And, gazing upwards at those glorious fires,In azure hung by Him whose single mightAt first divided darkness from the light, Exclaim, adoring his most awful state,—"A Godhead truly reigns; and, O, that God how great!"If these, sweet syren, animate thy lays,They weave for thee a wreath of never-fading bays.