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Poetry
Morn on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews That freshen’d Beauty’s flower, Then from her bower of deep delight, I heard a young girl sing, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’ The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on the heaving breast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil Unpitied and unblest, Yet still in trembling measures flow’d Forth from a broken string, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’ ’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, ’Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere, Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread The waiting Angel’s wing, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’