Poems (Louisa Blake)/Poetry
For works with similar titles, see Poetry.
POETRY.
When the fountain of feeling is dried in the heart,
And languor and listlessness steal through the frame;
When affection's kind language no joy can impart,
And we feel no delight in friendship's sweet name;
And languor and listlessness steal through the frame;
When affection's kind language no joy can impart,
And we feel no delight in friendship's sweet name;
What is it that then can true pleasure impart?
What can the right tone to our feelings restore?
'Tis poetry then, that will speak to the heart,
'Tis the soul-breathing numbers of Byron and Moore!
What can the right tone to our feelings restore?
'Tis poetry then, that will speak to the heart,
'Tis the soul-breathing numbers of Byron and Moore!
Oh! does there exist in this wide-spreading world,
A heart, which no natural feelings retains?
A man who can read the sweet writings of Moore,
And not feel a rapture awaked by the strains?
A heart, which no natural feelings retains?
A man who can read the sweet writings of Moore,
And not feel a rapture awaked by the strains?
O that man must be cold and unfeeling indeed,
If the love of true poetry reach not his mind!
All soulless and heartless, he 'll drag through his life,
His misery unsoften'd,—his bliss unrefined.
If the love of true poetry reach not his mind!
All soulless and heartless, he 'll drag through his life,
His misery unsoften'd,—his bliss unrefined.