The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray (fmile. But, lo! the fun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, XXI. སྨོན་ན And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mift the world below was loft. What dreadful pleasure! there to ftand fublime, Like fhipwreck'd mariner on defert coast, And view th enormous waste of vapour, toft In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now fcoop'd in gulphs, with mountains now emboss'd! And hear the voice of mirth and fong rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound! XXII. In truth he was a ftrange and wayward wight, A figh, a tear, fo fweet, he wifh'd not to control. XXIII. • Oye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!? (The Mufe interprets thus his tender thought) Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, Of late fo grateful in the hour of drought! Why do the birds, that fong and rapture brought To all your bowers, their manfions now forfake? Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? For now the ftorm howls mournful through the brake, • And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake,” A • Where now the XIV. bodious, pure, and cooly mir- a, and beauty crown'd! , and fluggish pool. Have all the folitary vale i abrovʼn d; • Andmeads with lifej, Ah! fee, th' unfightly Fled each fair form, and mute cach melting found. • And hark! the river, bursting every mound, Down the vale thunders, and with wafteful fway, Uproots the grove, and rolls the fhatter'd rocks away XXV. Yet fuch the destiny of all on earth: Borne on the fwift, though filent wings of Time, Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. XXVI. And be it fo. Let thofe deplore their doom, Whofe hope ftill grovels in this dark fojourn. But lofty fouls, who look beyond the tomb, Can fmile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall spring to thefe fad fcenes no more return? Is yonder wave the fun's eternal bed?— Soon fhall the orient with new luftre burn, And fpring fhall foon her vital influence fhed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. XXVII. • Shall I be left abandon'd in the duft, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? • Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live? Is it for this fair Virtue oft muft ftrive With difappointment, penury, and pain No Heaven's immortal (pring fhall yet arrive; Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign.' XXVIII. This truth fublime his fimple fire had taught. Let man's own fphere (quoth he) confine his view, And much, and oft, he warn'd him, to eschew XXIX. And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Wo Forlorn, is this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, fhould heaven refuse to hear What to thyfelf thou wishest to be done. Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land; nor those alone; All human weal and wo learn thou to make thine own." XXX. See, in the rear of the warm funny shower, XXX. Yet couldft thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bofom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And Difappointment of her fting difarm.--But why fhould forefight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young defire! Purfue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm, Indulge gay Hope, and Fancy's pleafing fire: Fancy and Hope too foon fhall of themselves expire. XXXII: When the long-founding curfew from afar Or blaft that shrieks by fits the fhuddering ifles along. XXXIII. Or, when the fetting moon, in crimfon dyed, XXXIV. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arofe; the trumpet bids the waves unfold; And forth an hoft of little warriors march, Grafping the diamond lance and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their filk attire; And here and there, right venerably add, The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And fome with mellow breath the martial pipe infpire. XXXV. With merriment, and fong, and timbrels clear, Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forefts blaze. XXXVI. The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, XXXVII. Forbear, my Mufe. Let Love attune thy line. Revoke the fpell. Thine Edwin frets not fo. For how fhould he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow? Even now his eyes with fmiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the fcenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living luftre blow, Where thoufand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are born. XXXVIII. But who the melodies of morn can tell? 'The wild brook babbling down the mountain fide; |