II.

There is a spell by which the panting soul Shakes from its stainless pinions all the gyves Wherewith our frail mortality still strives To bind it downward 'neath its stern controul; When springing from the earth like the sweet lark That wings its flight in music to the sky, Amid the spheres it wanders, where the eye Trembles to blindness, and the last faint spark Of Earth's far gleaming flickers and expires; Thine is the charm, dear Poesy, which sets The cagëd spirit on its heavenward flight, And fills its being with those pure desires, And holy aspirations, which like light Shower on the world in distillations bright.