Talk of the WYE as some old dream, 417 Call it the wild, the wizard stream; Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest, And take the pilgrimage of joy; The eye of genius may behold A thousand beauties here untold; Rock, that defies the winter's storm; Wood, in its most imposing form, That climbs the mountain, bows below, Views by no tricks of fancy plan'd; But let the vacant trifler stray From thy enchantments far away; For should, from fashion's rainbow train, The idle and the vicious vain, In sacrilege presume to move Through these dear scenes of peace and love, The spirit of the stream would rise In wrathful mood, and tenfold size, And nobly guard his COLDWELL SPRING, And bid his inmost caverns ring; Loud thund'ring on the giddy crew, "My stream was never meant for you."" But ye, to nobler feelings born, Who sense and nature dare not scorn, Glide gaily on, and ye shall find The blest serenity of mind 433 That springs from silence; or shall raise The hand, the eye, the voice of praise. Live then, sweet stream! and henceforth be The darling of posterity; Lov'd for thyself, for ever dear, Like beauty's smile and virtue's tear, Till time his striding race give o'er, And verse itself shall charm no more. THE END. 449 |