On the Datura Arborea

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell, Are not thy train:—those flowers of vase-like swell, Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high, And in their monumental purity Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe Which broods o'er Sculpture's works—A meet ally For those heroic forms, the simply grand, Art thou: and worthy, carv'd by plastic hand, Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine In spotless marble; honouring one, whose strain Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.