Lines

Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd farFrom thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!And many a flower, which in the passing timeMy heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chillOf undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceasedTo hover o'er the many-voiced stringsOf my long silent lyre, yet thou canst stillCall the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell,And with recalled images of blissWarm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw,Once more would throw a quick and hurried handO'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased--It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmthPlays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month.Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but liftThy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire,Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood,Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.Yet other duties call me, and mine earMust turn away from the high minstrelsyOf thy soul-trancing harp, unwillinglyMust turn away; there are severer strains(And surely they are sweet as ever smoteThe ear of spirit, from this mortal coilReleased and disembodied), there are strainsForbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,Through the probation of revolving years,And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,Have purged and purified. To these my soulAspireth; and to this sublimer endI gird myself, and climb the toilsome steepWith patient expectation. Yea, sometimesForetaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimesSpirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,And minister strange music, which doth seemNow near, now distant, now on high, now low,Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,And full fruition filling all the soul.Surely such ministry, though rare, may sootheThe steep ascent, and cheat the lassitudeOf toil; and but that my fond heartReverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,I lay a listless muser, prizing, farAbove all other lore, the poet's theme;But for such recollections I could braceMy stubborn spirit for the arduous pathOf science unregretting; eye afarPhilosophy upon her steepest height,And with bold step and resolute attemptPursue her to the innermost recess,Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.