Its fervour;—the flushed cheek and glowing eye
Confess its influence;—and the many strings,
Voiceless too long in the young heart, reply
To the mute promptings of a thousand things
Which Spring has conjured up;—all, all is hers—
That Glory without name—she ministers.
Now—all the thoughts she wakens in the heart
Are glorious Music!—divine Poesy!—
Now—all the dreams on Fancy's eyes that start,
She will disown not, wayward though they be.