■280 
O Poesy, bewitching power ! 
What fascinations are thy dower ! 
Thou dwellest in a fairy round, 
Thou treadest on enchanted ground; 
“ The common air, the sun, the skies. 
To thee are opening paradise.” 
Thy touch can turn to more than gold 
The meanest object we behold; 
Thy master spell all nature owns. 
Thou giv’st a meaning to the tones 
Of summer breeze and wintry gale : 
Thou add’st a shade to midnight’s veil, 
Splendour to noon,— to pensive eve 
More touching softness,—and dost weave 
For morn a coronal of flowers, 
Such as but grow in Fancy’s bowers. 
While Science, with unpitying hand, 
“ Unweaves the rainbow thou dost stand 
In tranced gaze, but dost not pause, 
Pleased with th’ effect, to ask the cause. 
Evh now, what charms thy magic spell 
Has thrown around a hermit’s cell: 
Who that has read that witching lay, 
“ But long’d for wings to flee away” 
• See Kcat. 
