In a Volume of Sir Thomas Browne

STRANGE spoil from this weird garden Memory brings;
Here, hard by Flower de Luce, the night-blast sows
Moonstruck Thessalian herbs ; o’erhead (who knows ?)
Or from beneath, a sough of missioned wings ;
The soil, enriched with mould of Coptic kings,
Bears, intertwining, substances and shows,
And in the midst about their mystic rose
The Muses dance, while rapt Apollo sings.
All-potent Phantasy, the spell is thine;
Thou lay’st thy careless finger on a word,
And there forever shall thine effluence shine,
The witchery of thy rhythmic pulse be heard ;
Yea, where thy foot hath left its pressure fine,
Though but in passing, haunts the Attic bird.

James Russell Lowell.