Classic Poem

And slakes his thirst, undaunted, at the stream.
Isles of o'erwhelming beauty! surely here
The wild enthusiast might live, and dream
His life away. No Nymphic trains appear,
To charm the pale Ideal Worshipper
Of Beauty; nor Neriads from the deeps below;
Nor hideous Gnomes, to fill the breast with fear:
But crystal streams through endless landscapes flow,
And o'er the clustering Isles the softest breezes blow.

LYRIC TO THE ISLES.

Here the Spirit of Beauty keepeth
Jubilee for evermore;
Here the Voice of Gladness leapeth,
Echoing from shore to shore.
O'er the hidden watery valley,
O'er each buried wood and glade,
Dances our delighted galley,
Through the sunlight and the shade —
Dances o'er the granite cells,
Where the Soul of Beauty dwells:

Here the flowers are ever springing,
While the summer breezes blow;
Here the Hours are ever clinging,
Loitering before they go;
Playing round each beauteous islet,
Loath to leave the sunny shore,
Where, upon her couch of violet,
Beauty sits for evermore —
Sits and smiles by day and night,
Hand in hand with pure Delight.

Here the Spirit of Beauty dwelleth
In each palpitating tree,
In each amber wave that welleth
From its home, beneath the sea;
In the moss upon the granite,
In each calm, secluded bay,
With the zephyr trains that fan it
With their sweet breaths all the day —
On the waters, on the shore,
Beauty dwelleth evermore!