Of burning poesy come o’er my brain,
Till every nerve with o’er wrought feeling fraught,
Throbs with a pained intensity of thought.
Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar?
Why were these visions wakened in my breast,
These wild ambitionings that mar its rest,
Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core,
With bright imaginings of other sphere
Launched from their former source; what do they here?
Ah! if the muse bestowed them but in vain,