With every billow sentinel to keep

Its prisoner fetter'd to his ocean cell—

What were it but a plunge—an instant strife—

Then liberty snatch'd from the clutch of Death

The Tyrant, who with mystic terror grinds

Men into slaves—But he who thinks is free,

[Pg 2]

And fineless as the unresting winds of heaven,

Now rushing with wild joy around the belt

Of whirling Saturn, then away through space

Till he and all his radiant brotherhood

Dwindle to fire-flies round the brow of Night.

Thought is the great creator under God,

Begotten of his breathing, that can raise

Shapes from the dust and give them Beauty's soul;

And though my empire be a continent,

Squared down from leagues to inches, what of that?

The mind contains a world within its frame

Which Fancy peoples o'er with radiant forms,

Replete with life and spirit excellence.

 Prev. P 4/251 next