In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter.-Ev'n amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount, when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days; But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape e? A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. LXVI. When Paphos fell by Time-accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to theeThe Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee, And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white; Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled Morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXVIII. The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest : Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London! right well thou knowest the day of prayer : Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. |