The Poet.

Behold the poet, where, enchain’d by thought,1
He sits in solitude—the frenzied eye2
Upturn’d to evening’s crimson-mantled sky;3
The panting breast with inspiration fraught.4
Oh! who can guess the visions that are brought5
To glowing Fancy’s sight !— the while, on high,6
He scans the painted clouds slow gliding by,7
As they were curtains under which he sought8
The seraph messengers of heavenly powers!9
Thus Genius soars aloft to catch a flow10
Of minstrelsy divine—like lark that towers11
Through cloud or sunshine, rain, or feathery snow12
To learn the notes that gush from angel-bowers,13
And kindle in dull hearts a sacred glow.14