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Parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the defart, hail ! Say, in what deep and pathless vale ; Or on what hoary mountain's fide, 'Midst falls of water you reside: 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and graffy dales between : Midít forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke; Where never human art appear’d, Nor ev’n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems to fit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne. Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell, To thy unknown fequefter'd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor ; And on whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to reft. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spencer thro' a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
And trembles, left the tottering wall
To high-archt walks, and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to fhun The fervors of the mid-day fun. The pangs of absence, O remove, For thou can'lt place me near my love;
Can'ft fold in vifionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss ; While her ruby lips dispence Luscious nectar's quintessence. When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her 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 filver beard with cold; At every season, let my ear Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear. O warm enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breaths an energy divine, That gives a foul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unhallowed strain ; Nor dare to touch the sacred ftring, Save, when with smiles thou bid'ft me fing. O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb, On which thou lov'st to fit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave. O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain,