_(For the Mirror.)_
Young land of beauty, and divine repose!
Art thou a dream? a vision from on high
Unveiling Paradise? uncurt'ning those
Supernal glories, Eden doth supply
To glad immortals? o'er thee, ev'ning glows,
Brilliant, as seraph's blush--pure as his breath--
Smiling an antidote to tears and death!
Young land of beauty! (fancy could not dwell
In lovelier, albeit her rainbow wings
Fold, but in fairy-spheres) a living well
Of sylvan joy art thou, whose thousand springs
Gush, sinless, gladness, peace ineffable,
And that luxuriousness of being, which
Mocks eloquence: warm, holy, ruby, rich.
Young land of beauty! 'neath thy sun-ting'd shades,
Beside thy lake, crystal in roseate light,
Enam'ring music breathes: there, raptur'd maids
In dances, with adoring youths unite;
There, magic voices sigh in song; and glades
With birds and blossoms, all but vital, seem
Entranc'd, like hermit in divinest dream!
Young land of beauty! art thou but a ray
Of intellect, emerg'd from one? and shrin'd,
That thine immortal light may dim the day,
Faint struggling thro' some lowlier, cloudier, mind:
Dream of the painter-poet! oh! we'll say,
Lur'd to ethereal musings by thy thrall,
Tho' dream in part, no dream art thou in all!