What though thy form I ne'er beheld,
Yet fancy oft would trace
Expression, features, look, with all
Their witchery or grace.
What though thy voice were never heard,
I felt its melting tone,
That came like some mysterious spell,
Unbidden and alone!
I saw thee in the winged beam,
First-born of morning light;
In darkness oft I saw thee still,
A vision of the night.
And though unheard, unseen,—thy name
The same sweet image brings,
And fancy o'er the mimic scene,
Her own bright halo flings.
Oh who shall tell the wondrous glimpse
Imagination threw,
As though past, present, and to come
Were open to her view!
As though the hidden sense had now,
From earthly dross refin'd,
Pierc'd this material and left
Mortality behind!
And is not this a ray that breaks,
With unquench'd potency,
Forth from the Omnipotent,—a light
From his omniscient eye?
A spark from that eternal mind,
First breath'd into our breast;
An image of the Infinite,
On finite pow'rs impress'd.
And though debas'd, degraded, dim,
From heav'n's own light they shine,
Imagination, fancy, thought,
Their origin divine!