THE FAIRY’S SEARCH 
19 
W ith inspiration high ! 
But ah he vainly longs for this— 
Not his the lot, not his the bliss 
To dwell where he might rove at will 
By murmuring stream or mossy hill, 
And feel their charms his spirit thrill 
With thought’s sublimest strains. 
And, thus, denied the lot he loves, 
He feels as exil’d from his home 
And cherishes the lowliest thing 
That can a shadowy picture bring 
Of the beloved and beauteous scenes 
lie visits only in his dreams. 
Thus flowers, to him, are like the chime 
Of his own native melodies 
To wanderer in a foreign clime; 
They image to his soul the light 
Of lovely scenes afar 
As truly as the tranquil lake 
Reflects the twilight Star. 
Tho’ voiceless, for his ear they have 
A language all their own, 
And, as the shell from ocean’s cave 
Still murmurs in melodious tone 
Of its far distant home, 
So, eloquently whisper they 
Of their bright birth-place far away. 
No marvel then the poet loves 
These “ children of the Sun and shower,” 
No marvel then their presence moves 
His spirit with resistless power. 
The Fairy mark’d the holy flame 
