Or later, in Italian day, Gave to the Mantuan his lay? These fairy footsteps here I trace On lands from whence have sprung my race. Their liquid voices audible Are heard by Frith or limpid rill; On shadowy bend unknown before But by traditionary lore. Who would have thought that Thule's isle, Would be the seat of song erewhile; And lyric fire, and epic swell, Come with Apollo here to dwell. Ah me! that cannot nearer be To hear such native melody! Which feeling prompts, but Genius none, My gift is only to admire; In madness I attempt the lyre, At hearing this celestial sound From Scotia's hills and distant bound. Address me, or I think address To give us also here a name, Ah! lonely bowers, in vain your tears; You gave me west winds and soft shade. To you attract a poet's lay; To put in verse some height, some stream Just incidental in his theme. Oh! might my name of Bracken born, Some ridge where infant lay forlorn, Or peasant built his hamlet drear, It nam'd in one immortal line, Which turns a harsh word to divine! But this too much; I cannot claim The meed of such advance to fame; It can't be said that such a dale Where deeds were done, is where I dwell; Or that I vegetate among The hills which once were hills of song. And think of something else than fame; But thou, celestial, take thy course VOL. IV. Go on; enjoy increasing fame, Not SHAKSPEARE would himself disdain Oh! for a theme of ampler space, Which claims and has a right to claim Or deeds which heroes here have done, To make the breast heave, and tear start, That harp to which all sounds are known In torrent numbers, flood of sense In bounds which judgment well restrains. Or fading to thy ivy-crown; For should some hidden fire or force Yet time at thee shall break his lance; That hymn'd the song, or tun'd the lyre; Is found in thy Loch Katrine theme; And Pindus rises to our view When that we think of Benvenue; Or we forget all other song, Thy inspiration pours so strong. So far remov'd, what the reward Can we bestow upon the bard? Our praise is vain; what winds will bear Or will it please, so little skill To halt a little at thy lay, And see if not his beams appear More charming when he climbs the sphere; And dances in the human face; And why not morning at her dawn More sprightly look upon the lawn; With sweeter imitative lay? Though not, thou bird of scarlet wing,* * A beautiful American bird of a variety of notes. Though carol sweet and matin voice What sound is that I hear again, With gratulation welcome sped It trembles on the mountain head, When rapturous strains like these pass by. I also wish to hear awhile; Sole Poet of the present age, To sounds that well deserve a heaven; Original, of vigour born, And dress'd in splendor of the morn, And region of the chieftain race- May help to cast the glamourt o'er, *This poem announced, but not arrived. † Enchantment. |