A song for God’s own victory! Oh, thy lays,
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:
How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling, bitter founts—return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!
RUTH.
The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d,
Still brings me back thine image—O forlorn,