73
’Tis thus that Shakspeare with inspiring song,
Can lead the visionary train along;
Then by his magic spell the scene around,
The "yellow sands" become enchanted ground.
But when the lingering smile of even dies,
And when the mild and silvery moonbeams rise,
Then sweeter is the favourite rustic seat,
Where pensile ash trees form the green retreat,
And mingle with the richer foliage round,
To cast a trembling shadow on the ground;
'Tis there retir'd I pour the artless rhyme,
And court the muses at this tranquil time.
Oh! Genius, lead me to Piërian bowers,
And let me cull a few neglected flowers:
By all the poets, fanciful and wild,
Whose tales my hours of infancy beguil'd,
Oh! let thy spirit animate my lyre,
And all the numbers of my youth inspire.
Perhaps, where now I pour the simple lays,
Thy bards have wak'd the song of other days;
Some Cambrian Ossian may have wander'd near,
While airy music murmur'd in his ear:
Perhaps, even here, beneath the moonlight beam,
He lov'd to ponder some entrancing theme;
