Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile? Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich-Go, And own what raptures from Reflection flow. Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail! That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. Long have ye heard the narratives of age, The battle's havoc and the tempest's rage; Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease: A softer tone of light pervades the whole, And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued Each mountain-scene, majestically rude; To note the sweet simplicity of life, Far from the din of Folly's idle strife; Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE reared; Still to the musing pilgrim points the place Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, But these pure joys the world can never know; In gentler climes their silver currents flow. Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, Above, below, aërial murmurs swell, From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell! A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, Stealing soft music on the ear of night. So oft the finer movements of the soul, That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay controul, Once, and domestic annals tell the time, (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue, A blithe and blooming Forester explored Those loftier scenes SALVATOR'S Soul adored; The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread, That downward to the night of caverns led; Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, Thro' morn's grey mist its melting colours gave; Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream. And on the green hill's side the meteor played; When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro' the shade. It ceased-yet still in FLORIO's fancy sung, Still on each note his captive spirit hung; Till o'er the mead a cool, sequestered grot A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor, In this secret, shadowy cell With her sister Solitude. Far from the busy world she flies, The little lines of yesterday. FLORIO had gained a rude and rocky seat, When lo, the Genius of this still retreat! Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace Can VIRGIL'S verse, can RAPHAEL'S touch impart Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye And in the world's contagious climate die? She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; Her pastoral beauty and her artless air |