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O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water,

you

reside; 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green

dales between : 'Midst forests dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke; Where never human art appear'd, Nor ev’n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd; Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne. Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, To thy unknown sequester'd cell; Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor ; And on whose top a hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear;

and grassy

And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd, By the sweetly-soothing sound ! Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy, and white-robed Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads ; Where Echo walks steep hills among, Listning to the shepherd's song: Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy! Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels, and the house of wo; To gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek, Or to some abbey's mouldering tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold wintry show’rs,

The naked beggar shivering lies,
Whilst whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat,
The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear :
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo, the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?-What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign ;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks, and alleys green,

Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The
pangs

of absence, O remove,
For thou can’st plaće me near my love ;
Can’st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss ;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!
When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
From ber green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale ;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks ;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold ;
At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may. I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.

O hear our prayer, 0 hither come, From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave: O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill’d with inexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre; Who, with some new unequalld song, May rise above the rhyming throng; O'er all our listening passions reign, O’erwhelm our souls with joy and pain : With terror shake, with pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love. Or deign tattend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause, Beyond cold critic's studied laws: O let each Muse's fame increase, O bid Britannia rival Greece!

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