Classic Poem

F LORUS , canst thou define that innate spark
Which blazes but for glory? Canst thou paint
The trembling rapture in its infant dawn,
Ere young Ideas spring; to local Thought
Arrange the busy phantoms of the mind,
And drag the distant timid shadows forth,
Which, still retiring, glide unform'd away,
Nor rush into expression? No; the pen,
Tho' dipp'd in awful Wisdom's deepest tint,
Can never paint the wild extatic mood.

Yet, when the bolder Image strikes thine eye,
And uninvited grasps thy strongest thought,
Resolv'd to shoot into this World of Things,
Wide fly the gates of Fancy; all alarm'd,
The thin ideal troop in haste advance,
To usher in the substance-seeking Shade.

And what's the Shade which rushes on the world
With pow'rful glare, but emblem of the soul?

Ne'er hail the fabled Nine, or snatch rapt Thought
From the Castalian spring; 'tis not for thee ,
From embers, where the Pagan's light expires,
To catch a flame divine. From one bright spark
Of never-erring Faith, more rapture beams
Than wild Mythology could ever boast.

Pursue the Eastern Magi through their groves,
Where Zoroafter holds the mystic clue,
Which leads to great Ormazes; there thou'lt find.
His God thy own; or bid thy Fancy chase
Restless Pythag'ras thro' his varied forms,
And she shall see him sitting on a heap
Of poor Absurdity; where chearful Faith
Shall never rest, nor great Omniscience claim.

What are the Muses, or Apollo's strains,
But harmony of soul? Like thee, estrang'd
From Science, and old Wisdom's classic lore,
I've patient trod the wild entangled path
Of unimprov'd Idea. Dauntless Thought
I eager seiz'd, no formal Rule e'er aw'd;
No Precedent controul'd; no Custom fix'd
My independent spirit: on the wing
She still shall guideless soar, nor shall the Fool,
Wounding her pow'rs, e'er bring her to the ground.

Yet Florus, list! to thee I loudly call;
Dare thee, by all the transport Mind can reach,
Yea, by the boasted privilege of Man ,
To stretch with me the spirit-raising wing
Of artless Rapture! Seek Earth's farthest bound,
Till Fancy panting, drops from endless space.

Deep in the soul live ever tuneful springs,
Waiting the touch of Ecstasy, which strikes
Most pow'rful on defenceless, untaught Minds;
Then, in soft unison, the trembling strings
All move in one direction. Then the soul
Sails on Idea, and would eager dart
Thro' yon ethereal way; restless awhile,
Again she sinks to sublunary joy.

Florus, rove on! pluck from the pathless vale
Of Fancy, all her loveliest, wildest sweets;
These best can please; but ah! beware, my Friend:
Timid Idea shrinks, when coldly thou
Would'st hail the tender shade; then strongly clasp
The coy, reluctant fugitive, or seize
The rover, as she flies; that breast alone
Is her's, all glowing with immortal flame;
And that be thine.