Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor?
Aëris et lingua sum filia;
Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.—AUSONIUS.
Once more, Enchantress of the soul,
Once more we hail thy soft controul.
—Yet whither, whither did’st thou fly?
To what bright region of the sky?
Say, in what distant star to dwell?
(Of other worlds thou seemst to tell)
Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Resolv’d and unresolv’d to go,
In secret didst thou still impart
Thy raptures to the Pure in heart?
Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore;
Thy broken murmurs swept along,
Mid Echoes yet untun’d by song;
Arrested in the realms of Frost,
Or in the wilds of Ether lost.
Far happier thou! ’twas thine to soar,
Careering on the winged wind.
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore?
Suns and their systems left behind.
No tract of space, no distant star,
No shock of elements at war,
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire
Bore thee amidst the Cherub-choir;
And there awhile to thee ’twas giv’n
Once more that Voice belov’d to join,
Which taught thee first a flight divine,
And nurs’d thy infant years with many a strain from Heav’n!
In the winter of 1805.
The late Mrs. Sheridan’s.