And armed knights from Palestine
In winding march appear:

'Twas I on each enchanting scene
The charm bestow'd that banished spleen
Thy bosom pure and light.
But still a _nobler_ power I claim;
That power allied to poets' fame,
Which language vain has dar'd to name--
The soul's creative might.

Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair,
And joyous Spring demand a share
Of Fancy's hallow'd power,
Yet these I hold of humbler kind,
To grosser means of earth confin'd,
Through mortal _sense_ to reach the mind,
By mountain, stream, or flower.

But mine, of purer nature still,
Is _that_ which to thy secret will
Did minister unseen,
Unfelt, unheard; when every sense
Did sleep in drowsy indolence,
And Silence deep and Night intense
Enshrowded every scene;

That o'er thy teeming brain did raise
The spirits of departed days[1]
Through all the varying year;