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Updated: May 5, 2025
'What is the source of gentleness, The spring of human blessedness, Bringing the wounded spirit healing, The comforts high of heaven revealing, The lightener of each daily care, The wing of hope, the life of prayer, The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow, Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow, The glory of the sun's bright beam, The softness of the pale moon stream, The flow'ret's grace, the river's voice, The tune to which the birds rejoice; Without it, vain each learned page, Cold and unfelt each council sage, Heavy and dull each human feature, Lifeless and wretched every creature; In which alone the glory lies, Which value gives to sacrifice?
How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile! These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades.
I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light; When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep, And spy my pale star, leading on the night, Forth to their games and revelry they leap; Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air, That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell; Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair, Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.
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