While the vast various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale;
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midft falls of water you refide:
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and graffy dales between:
'Midft foreft 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 feems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.

Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to reft.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream ;
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spencer thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufic in my ear;

And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the fweetly-foothing found!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead-
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;

Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her feftive court,

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
With Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads :
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift'ning to the fhepherd's fong.
Yet not thefe flowery fields of joy,
Can long my penfive mind employ :
Hafte, FANCY, from the fcenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and figh;
Let us with filent footsteps go

To charnels, and the house of woe;
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night fome virgin comes,
With throbbing breaft, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek.
Or to fome Abby's mouldring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs,
The naked beggar fhivering lies,

While whistling tempefts round her rise,

And trembles, left 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 bofom beat
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' fhrieks I hear :
Give me another horse, I cry,

;

Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage ?----what spirit, say,
To battle hurries we away?

'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of flain,
Where tumult and deftruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy furveys the ground,
And pointing to' th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-fhield.
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-archt walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to fhun
The fervors of the mid-day fun.
The pangs of abfence, O remove,
For thou can'ft place me near my love;

Can't fold in vifionary bliss,

And let me think I fteal a kifs ;

While her ruby lips difpence

Lufcious nectar's quinteffence.

When young-ey'd Spring profufely throws
From her green lap the pink and rofe;
When the foft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns feeks,
And ftains with wine his jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his filver beard with cold;
At every season, let my ear
Thy folemn 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 ftrive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallowed strain ;

Nor dare to touch the facred 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'ft to fit at eve,
Mufing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again,
Animate fome chofen fwain,

Who fill'd with unexhaufted fire,
May boldly fmite the founding lyre,
Who with fome new, unequall'd fong,
May rife above the rhyming throng.
O'er all our lift'ning paffions reign,
O'erwhelm our fouls with joy and pain:
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t' attend his evening walk,
With him in
groves and grottos talk ;
Teach him to fcorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like light'ning, let his mighty verse
The bofom's inmoft foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applaufe,
Feyond cold critic's ftudied laws:
O let each Mufe's fame encrease,
O bid Britannia rival Greece.