Talk of the WYE as some old dream,

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Call it the wild, the wizard stream;

Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest,
And youth shall smile to see you bless'd.
Artists, betimes your powers employ,

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,
Where deep th' unsullied waters flow.
Here Gilpin's eye transported scan'd

Views by no tricks of fancy plan'd;
Gray here, upon the stream reclin'd,
Stor'd with delight his ardent mind.

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

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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.

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