Written in my Lady's Dante

What binds me to the page ? my lonely cell
Is dim and cold : 'tis midnight's weary time —
Why am I doomed, as if by some deep spell,
With the lone bard his spectral hill to climb ?

The music of her voice hath breathed these words ;
Her eye hath shone this storied page along ;
Tones have been here soft as the summer birds,
When echoes of the eve were deep with song !

Thenceforth a charm was on the Italian lay ;
The Florentine was blended with thy name ;
His dreams have thronged my slumbers, but for aye
Thy shining brow amid those visions came.

'Twere a proud task, from that rich voice to learn
These antique legends of the dreamy South ;
Ah ! no ! too oft my wayward lips would turn
To mar the music of that thrilling mouth !