THE bow of promise, this lost flaring star, 
Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She, 
The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy, 
Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar 
Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are 
A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea, 
Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity, 
Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar. 
Tools of the brain--the globe, the cube--no more 
She deals with; in her hand the compass stays; 
Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore 
Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays, 
Expect this secret to enlarge thy store; 
She moves through incommunicable ways.