To Rosina Pico Poem by William Wilberforce Lord

REGENT of song! who bringest to our shore
Strains from the passionate land, where shapes of art
Make music of the wind that passes o'er,
Thou even here hast found the human heart;
And in a thousand hearts thy songs repeat
Their echoes, like remembered poesy sweet,
Witching the soul to warble evermore.

First seen, it seemed as if thy sweetest strain
Had taken shape, and stood before our sight;
Thy aspect filled the silence with sweet pain
That made it long for death. O creature bright!
Or ere the trembling silence had ta'en flight
We listened to thy looks, in hushed delight,
And from thy motions sought a sound to gain.

Then on all hearts at once did pour a flood
Of golden sound, in many an eddying tone,
As pours the wind into a breathless wood,
Awakening in it music not its own;
Thy voice controlled all spirits to one mood,
Before all eyes one breathing image stood
Beheld, as if to thee all eyes had grown.

Yet did I seem to be with thee alone,
With thee to stand upon enchanted ground,
And gazed on thee, as if the sculptured stone
Should live before me, (so thy magic bound
My soul, bewildered) while a cloud of sound,
Rising in wreaths, upon the air around
Lingered like incense from a censer thrown.