Unidentified 19th century poem

From the Poesie’s minstrel lyre?

Not of thee, sweet Lady, dreaming!

Other thoughts, far nobler, teeming,

In thy mind so full of grace;

There’s a sun shines o’er thy face,

There hath taught thee, Star of Beauty!

Many a lesson, many a duty!

Lovely teacher, never weary—

Now, with a cold world, dreary

Still their lessons, like a tune,

Breathed soft beneath the softened moon,

Sink silently into our hearts,

Sink silently as dew on flowers,

Which, with their changing petals make

A dial for the summer flowers.