CLYDE;
A POEM.
Thy arching groves, O Clyde, thy fertile plains,
Thy towns and villas, claim my filial strains.
Ye Powers! who o'er these winding dales preside,
Who shake the woods, who roll the river's tide
Who wake the sylvan song, whose pencils pour
The forms of beauty o'er each painted flower;
Inspire the numbers, let the verse display
The charms that grace the imitative lay.
When gently flows the stream, then let the song
In softest, easiest numbers glide along: 10
When swell'd with rains, o'er rocks it rages fierce,
Swell, rage, and roar, and thunder in my verse.
And thou! to whom indulgent Heaven consigned
The power to bless, the fair angelic mind;
Thy towns and villas, claim my filial strains.
Ye Powers! who o'er these winding dales preside,
Who shake the woods, who roll the river's tide
Who wake the sylvan song, whose pencils pour
The forms of beauty o'er each painted flower;
Inspire the numbers, let the verse display
The charms that grace the imitative lay.
When gently flows the stream, then let the song
In softest, easiest numbers glide along: 10
When swell'd with rains, o'er rocks it rages fierce,
Swell, rage, and roar, and thunder in my verse.
And thou! to whom indulgent Heaven consigned
The power to bless, the fair angelic mind;
