THERE-S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be
But concentrated by the chastened dreams
Of constant hearts. Where-er the ministry
Of beautiful Nature hath enhanced the themes
Of some Petrarchian mind whose story gleams
Within the Past like a moon-silvered sea,
Or where grey Interest the spirit free
Of faithful Love hath caged in iron schemes,
Or round it stirr-d such dangers as o-erdrove
Long Ruin-s storm at last-there evermore
The very airs that whisper to the grove,
The echo-s mystery and the streamlet-s lore
Savour of Passion and transfusive pour
Abroad suggestions to heroic Love.