“Do you too pardon?”--shrilly she replied,
Bending again on me that burning ray,
Whose heat no contrite waters could allay--
“Then, dear LOUISA, peaceful shall I die,
“Since hallow’d thus my last--remorseful sigh;
“But Oh! ’tis dread--when memory displays
“The guilt-stain’d retrospect of vanish’d days!
“The secret--selfish joy--which hail’d the blow,
“That laid ERNESTO’S prosperous fortunes low;
“Sever’d those hands--whose glowing hearts were join’d,
“The sacred union of the kindred mind.--
“Heaven re-unites them!--and the wretch removes,
“That impious rose between their plighted loves;
“Who not content to blast their sweet increase,
“And arm--EUGENIO’S virtue--’gainst his peace,
“Added”--But now, from feebleness, or shame,
A deadly faintness sickens through her frame.
Reviving shortly--“I would fain,” she cries,
“Ere everlasting darkness close these eyes,
“Intreat of that kind spirit--sweet, and mild,
“Its future--generous goodness--to my child.
“Love her, LOUISA--love her--I implore,
“When lost EMIRA--wounds thy peace no more!
“Oh! gently foster in her opening youth,
“The seeds of virtue--honour--faith--and truth,
“For thy EUGENIO’S sake!--who gave her birth,
“And gave--I trust--the temper of his worth!
“And when--on his lov’d knees--my infant climbs,
“Adjure him--to forget her mother’s crimes!
“I know thou wilt!--I feel thy heart expand,
“In the dear pressure--of that gentle hand.
“O ye wrong’d pair! in the last awful morn,
“When my stain’d soul at the eternal bourn
“Shall trembling stand--her final doom to hear,
“She less shall dread--to meet the injur’d there!
“Congenial mercy--she may hope to prove,
“From the offended powers--of truth--and love!”
While yet these interrupted accents hung,
Faint on the rigid lip, and faltering tongue,
The stiffening spasm, the suffocating breath,
Gave dread presage of near approaching death.--
Now roll the eyes in fierce and restless gaze!
Now on their wildness steals the ghastly glaze!
Till o’er her form the shadowy horrors spread
The dim suffusion that involves the DEAD.
Thus wealth, and rank, and all their gorgeous train,
The proud that madden, and ensnare the vain;
Youth’s frolic grace, and beauty’s radiant bloom,
Sink, in the dreary silence of the tomb;
But oh! rejoice with me, that hope’s blest beam
Threw o’er the dark abyss one trembling gleam!
For thy LOUISA--Words can ill impart
How dear the comforts eddying round her heart!
How soft the joy, by sorrow’s shading hand
Touch’d into charms more exquisitely bland!
Or paint EUGENIO’S transports as they rise,
More sweet for generous pity’s mingled sighs;
Sweet above all, from the exulting pride
Of self-approving virtue, strongly tried.
Applauding Conscience, yes! to thee ’tis given,
To inspire a joy, that antedates our heaven!
Thus, on Moria’s consecrated height,
Flow’d the obedient patriarch’s fond delight,
When o’er the filial breast, his faith to seal,
On high had gleam’d the sacrificing steel;
Thus flow’d, when at the voice, divinely mild,
His raptur’d hands unbound his only child!
O come, my EMMA!--yet thou ne’er hast seen
Embodied virtue in EUGENIO’S mien;
Grace, grandeur, truth, and tenderness combin’d,
The liberal effluence of the polish’d mind!
And for more generous pleasures than we prove,
The bliss surveying of the friends we love,
Sure we must wait, till angels shall impart
Their own perfection to the expanded heart!
Haste then to share our blessings, as they glow
Through the receding shades of heaviest woe!--
As spring’s fair morn, with calm, and dewy light,
Breaks through the weary, long, and stormy night,
So now, as through the vale of life we stray,
The STAR of JOY relumes, and leads us on our way!
SONG OF ROXANA.[120]
A PERSIAN POEM.
When, to thy own Roxana’s arms,
Wilt thou, my lovely lord, return?
When on thy blaze of youthful charms
Shall these desiring glances turn?
Anxious I wait thee in the spicy grove;--
My eye-balls ache with watching for my love.
The sofa, for my lord’s repose,
Is scattered o’er with jess’mine wreaths;
There every flower, that Persia knows,
Voluptuous odour breathes;
While in full drops descend the roseate oils,
Press’d from the glowing Orient’s ripen’d spoils.
Light on my couch the virgins shed
Zest, from the rich Latura drawn;
And all in soft profusion spread,
Embath’d in sweets, the snowy lawn.
Haste then, O haste, to glad these longing eyes,
Pride of my life, and transport of my joys!
THE
SONG OF ZILLIA.[121]
Lamp of thy tender Zillia’s vital day,
Throb of her heart, her first, her only love,
Incessant as her steps disorder’d stray
Along the vacant,--silent,--lonely grove,
Once the selected of thy beauteous train,
Calls her far wandering Lord, but calls in vain!
Ah, my loved SULTAN! often hast thou bound
Golconda’s diamonds on my youthful brow!
But dim the plum’d and jewel’d turban found
In faded eyes, that weep a broken vow.
Lost is the gem, that shames Peruvia’s store,
Thy heart, my Lord--restore it!--O, restore!
Ye robes of Irva, ye embroider’d veils,
Gifts of my Lord, this hapless breast that bind,
Ah! when the piercing dart of grief assails,
Can ye defend my love-devoted mind?
From suns ye screen, or when chill dews prevail,
Not from love’s fire, or absence’ icy gale.
Ye gilded palaces, ye marble cells,
In which the tepid fountain sleeps serene,
Ye bowers of roses, where the night-bird tells
His amorous story to the floral queen,
Ah! what avail ye? powerless to atone
The heart estrang’d, that once was all my own!
These gay pavilions, these odorous bowers,
So long the joy of thy distinguish’d maid!
They charm no more;--no more, with tempting powers,
Pomegranates redden through their leafy shade;
Unheard the minstrel trills the liquid strain,
And Persia lights her fragrant gums in vain.
But let my Sultan seek these longing arms,
His eyes shall give my darkened gems to shine;
These gay retreats assume their wonted charms,
And all the bliss of vanish’d days be mine.
Blest, above women, shall the fair-one prove,
Who twines for him the purple wreaths of love!
EASTERN ODE,
TRANSLATED FROM THE PROSE OF SIR WILLIAM JONES.[122]
Hark, the sweet Nightingale! how soft she hails
The blooming season, and its balmy gales!
Wild floats her song amid expanding bowers,
And the young almond sheds the silver flowers.
Then let us all be happy while we may,
For soon the inspiring spring shall pass away!
A thousand florets deck each hill and grove,
And the rose flaunts in pleasure’s gay alcove.
Ah! ere pale Winter, paler fate may breathe
The deadly gale, that blasts our vital wreath!
Hope not, while youth and health their treasures bring,
Life’s rapid hours will pause upon their wing!
The light of Beauty glitters round the bowers,
For lovely as my Ahmed, shine the flowers;
Each varied tulip emulates my fair,
Her glowing cheek, dark eye, and golden hair.
Soon, like their hues, her beauties must decay;
We live to love, in youth’s resplendent day!
Again the dews, from leaves of lilies, glance,
Bright as the watry polish of the lance.
Their moisture soft the clust’ring roses share,
It falls, from floating clouds, through balmy air.
Hear me! O hear me, if ye mean to prove
In youth’s short hours, the joys of Spring, and Love!
Gay are the flowers, as Persia’s nymphs appear
When the pearl trembles in the fair-one’s ear.
They, like the form they emulate, array’d,
Shine but to wane, and blossom but to fade.
Too fair to last, expect their swift decay,
And taste the transient sweetness while you may!
Their beauteous orbs anemonies disclose,
Gay tulips flourish, and the splendid rose.
Like spears, at times, the sun-beams pierce the rains,[123]
Tinging the weltering bank with sanguine stains.
This day, while fast those vernal showers descend,
Allot to Wisdom, Fancy, and thy friend!
Past is the time, the wintry days are fled
When the dim rose-bud hung its shrivell’d head;
The time is come when rocks are crown’d with flowers,
And the wild mountains vie with cultur’d bowers.
Glad let us be since e’en rude rocks are gay,
And wear the gaudy wreaths of Love and May.
Now her moist gems the early morning throws
In the fresh bosom of the opening rose.
Shall avarice draw thee from our blooming vales
Whose musky perfumes linger on the gales?
What groveling cares do heaps of gold create!
Let love and beauty rule our softer fate!
Thy garden sweets as high the light winds drew,
They chang’d to rose-water the falling dew.
The gilded clouds a rich pavilion form,
Without the sable spot, that threats the storm;
Then shall our temples one dim shade display?
Ye sunny smiles, adorn them while ye may!
Late round the bowers the winds of Autumn mourn’d,
But soon, and bright, the solar Lord return’d.
Of him the cup-bearer desir’d the vine,
And flows, from purple orbs, the rosy wine!
Free bleed the grapes, and freely flows my song,
That gaily tells what joys to youth belong!
O! live my song, that future years may hail
These charming maids, and this enchanting vale!
The charming maids have listen’d to my lays,
And sure the verse will live, they deign to praise!
Since though it tells how short the vernal day,
It bids us live to pleasure while we may.
DAPHNE’s COYNESS
ACCOUNTED FOR.[124]
O! stay, lovely Nymph, while you hear who ’tis woos ye,
That the blithe god of wit, and of music, pursues ye,
Arrest thy fleet foot, that hastes wildly along,
Nor fly from the Lord of Verse, Physic, and Song!
At that dreadful word, Physic, she doubles her speed,
She springs through the thicket, she bounds o’er the mead,
For when fancy should paint a warm youth to have kiss’d her,
It presented, O, horrid! a bolus, and blister!
So, at length, to escape from the Doctor’s advances,
She commits her soft beauties to roots, and to branches.
Dull God!--had’st thou boasted, to vanquish her scorn,
Of thy locks hyacinthine, that burnish the morn,
Of the grace of those limbs, that can curb thy fierce horses,
And firm thro’ the Zodiac direct their rash courses;
Hadst thou urg’d her to turn, and to gaze on those eyes,
The blessing of earth, and the boast of the skies,
Talk’d less of thy knowledge, and more of thy charms,
Would the nymph have preferr’d a cold tree to thy arms?
No, no! ‘twas the thought, and the dread of a potion,
Which made her, thus oddly, renounce loco-motion.
Ah! ne’er, but for that, had the coy tree of fame
Stood, trembling and silent, by Arethuse’ stream;
And the Bards, who have gain’d by this amorous quarrel,
Might have worn the dull bays, but had miss’d the bright laurel.
VERSES
TO
MR. HAYLEY,
CONCERNING UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF OSSIAN.[125]
Here are verses that greet you in strange motley dress,
Gay Boothby’s arch fragment ek’d out by A. S.
“Sweet Bard of these times, whose poems are verse,
“No fragment have I of Gallic, or Erse,
“Of old Ossian’s old raiment if more we must see,
“Not a rag of his cloak e’er descended to me;
“And, if I durst say so, I dont much repine,
“For these Epics in prose are no favourites of mine;
“‘Tis the sun, who obscur’d in a mist, dimly gleams,
“Depriv’d of his ardour, and shorn of his beams;
“‘Tis the glimmering twilight, where all is confus’d,
“And the uncertain sight with vain phantoms abus’d;
“‘Tis”--Yes, I’ll tell you what ’tis, gentle Sir, on my word,
It is effrontery matchless, and worse than absurd,
When on crack’d bells of wit your few changes you ring all,
When pigmies, like you, dare attack GIANT FINGAL.
Immers’d in Low Latin, High German, and Dutch,[126]
On the claims of the Poet how dar’d you to touch?
And to write too in rhyme your impertinent letter!
Pity those who judge others dont know themselves better!
Pray, Sir, when you call on your elegant muse,
Is it Danish, or Swedish, or Polish, you use?
Hedwigia, Rotbollio, Bauxbamia, Serckæa,[127]
Wackendorffia, Zuzyigium, Schwalbea, Zægæa?
Such horrible jargon the Muses would drive all,
As the smell of the fish did Tobit’s black rival:
Yet that was a simile vended in haste,
For ’tis thou art the fiend on the bride-bed of Taste,
And ne’er shall that virgin an happy wife be,
Till Genius, her bridegroom, shall drive away thee.
To consummate their loves in the temple of Fame,
That bridegroom, from Scotia’s bleak scenery, came;
Strong in youth, though four centuries o’er him had roll’d,
For Genius poetic can never grow old:
Rich in beauty, tho’ sombre the hue of each grace,
For the sweetness is shaded that smiles on his face;
His harp the free hand of Sublimity strung,
And Pathos distill’d all her balm on his tongue;
Mighty Nature his pencil so exquisite made,
That it softens each light, as it mellows each shade;
Brings the object so full and distinct on the eye,
As shines the green vale, or as darkens the sky,
That rapt we can suffer no thought intervene,
But stand in the desert, and view the lone scene.
Heretic decisions thus bronzing thy brow,
Assuredly, Boothby, the demon art thou;
The dose Asmodean I long to see given,
Till from chamber poetic thou fairly art driven;
So for OSSIAN’S high claim, when you, demon-like, mock it,
May a shoal of rank herrings be stuff’d in your pocket!
WRITTEN
IN AUTUMN, 1784, AFTER A VISIT TO COLTON,
THE SEAT OF WILLIAM GILBERT, ESQ.
IN STAFFORDSHIRE.
Sweet were the joys, that o’er my spirit flow’d
In kind and generous GILBERT’S blest abode;
From Nature, and from him, the calm retreat
Boasts all that joins the lovely, and the great.
Charm’d from the track, which winds the mountain’s brow,
Peering so proudly on a world below,
I mark’d the circling heights, that bare, and pale,
Zone the rich bosom of his sylvan vale;
Where darksome woods rise murmuring to the gales,
Robe the near hills, and sink into the dales;
With pomp theatric many a mountain crown,
And screen the bulging rock’s terrific frown.
How soft, around their sombrous basis drawn,
Shines the green bosom of the sloping lawn!
While, ’mid their dusky labyrinths widely spread,
Swells the illumin’d bosom of the mead;
And, skirting its light edge in waving rows,
Ting’d with autumnal gold, the umbrage flows.
What wizard dells! how tangled, dark, and steep!
Down whose rough sides the foaming waters leap,
And with meand’ring course, and tuneful wail,
Run silvering onward through the gloomy dale!
How smooth those cliffs, that meet the noon-tide ray,
Rounding in gilt convexity away!
How clear the lake, that on the green hill sleeps!
How full the shrubs, that fringe its crystal deeps!
Whose Dryads o’er the liquid mirror lean,
Braid their light locks, and view their graceful mien.
Still, as, supported by his arm, I stray’d,
Climb’d the bold hill, or trac’d the silent glade,
Listening I heard his honour’d lips explain
The laws there given to Nature’s lavish reign;
The just restraints, that chasten’d wanton art,
And prov’d his taste ingenuous as his heart.
But GILBERT’S virtues claim an holier meed
Than praises warbled from the doric reed;
Since not alone with beauty’s robe he veils
The sterile rocks, and drains the marshy dales,
His cares the desert wilds of life explore,[128]
He lives the friend, and guardian of the poor;
Seeks, with unwearied aim, their lasting weal,
Their kind warm shelter, and their wholesome meal.
Deep in the lone recesses of the wood,
As leaning, late in pensive mood, he stood,
He mark’d the brook, descending from on high,
In one straight channel tire the earnest eye,
And, in the thirst for scenic beauty, sigh’d
To see its course in numerous streams divide.
High on its brow the rock’s stern Genius stood,[129]
And struck the crag, that beetled o’er the flood,
It falls!--huge fragments thunder on the waves!
The startled stream in many a current raves;
Throws her white foam amid the darkling glades,
And rapid flashes through entangled shades.
Thus, at benignant Gilbert’s wish to expand
The streams of Charity with skilful hand,
May giant Power suspend each ruthless claim,
Revere his virtue, and assist its aim;
Strike Law’s stern rock, till falling statutes force
The tides of bounty into happier course!
With me not only shall remain the trace
Of his lov’d Colton’s bold, romantic grace,
But of each rational and pure delight,
That cheer’d its walls with intellectual light;
Those smiles, awakening with resistless power,
The quick affections of the social hour,
Beam’d from her looks, who bounds his joys on earth,
Choice of his heart, and partner of his worth!
COLEBROOK DALE.
Scene of superfluous grace, and wasted bloom,
O, violated COLEBROOK! in an hour,
To beauty unpropitious and to song,
The Genius of thy shades, by Plutus brib’d,
Amid thy grassy lanes, thy woodwild glens,
Thy knolls and bubbling wells, thy rocks, and streams,
Slumbers!--- while tribes fuliginous invade
The soft, romantic, consecrated scenes;
Haunt of the wood-nymph, who with airy step,
In times long vanish’d, through thy pathless groves
Rang’d;--while the pearly-wristed Naiads lean’d,
Braiding their light locks o’er thy crystal flood,
Shadowy and smooth. What, though to vulgar eye
Invisible, yet oft the lucid gaze
Of the rapt Bard, in every dell and glade
Beheld them wander;--saw, from the clear wave
Emerging, all the watry sisters rise,
Weaving the aqueous lily, and the flag,
In wreaths fantastic, for the tresses bright
Of amber-hair’d SABRINA.--Now we view
Their fresh, their fragrant, and their silent reign
Usurpt by Cyclops;--hear, in mingled tones,
Shout their throng’d barge, their pond’rous engines clang
Through thy coy dales; while red the countless fires,
With umber’d flames, bicker on all thy hills,[130]
Dark’ning the Summer’s sun with columns large
Of thick, sulphureous smoke, which spread, like palls,
That screen the dead, upon the sylvan robe
Of thy aspiring rocks; pollute thy gales,
And stain thy glassy waters.--See, in troops,
The dusk artificers, with brazen throats,
Swarm on thy cliffs, and clamour in thy glens,
Steepy and wild, ill suited to such guests.
Ah! what avails it to the poet’s sense,
That the large stores of thy metallic veins
Gleam over Europe; transatlantic shores
Illumine wide;--are chang’d in either Ind
For all they boast, hot Ceylon’s breathing spice;
Peruvian gums; Brazilia’s golden ore;
And odorous gums, which Persia’s white-rob’d seer,
With warbled orisons, on Ganges’ brink,
Kindles, when first his MITHRA’S living ray
Purples the Orient.--Ah! the traffic rich,
With equal ‘vantage, might Britannia send
From regions better suited to such aims,
Than from her Colebrook’s muse-devoted vales,
To far resounding BIRMINGHAM, the boast,
The growing LONDON of the MERCIAN realm;
Thence to be wafted o’er our subject seas
To every port;--yes, from that town, the mart
Of rich inventive Commerce. Science there
Leads her enlighten’d sons, to guide the hand
Of the prompt artist, and with great design
Plan the vast engine, whose extended arms,
Heavy and huge, on the soft-seeming breath
Of the hot steam, rise slowly;--till, by cold
Condens’d, it leaves them soon, with clanging roar,
Down, down, to fall precipitant. Nor yet
Her fam’d Triumvirate, in every land[131]
Known and rever’d, not they the only boast,
Of this our second London; the rapt sage,[132]
Who trac’d the viewless Aura’s subtle breath
Through all its various powers, there bending feeds
The lamp of Science with the richest oils
Which the arch-chemist. Genius, knows to draw
From Nature’s stores, or latent, or reveal’d.
While neighbouring cities waste the fleeting hours,
Careless of art and knowledge, and the smile
Of every Muse, expanding BIRMINGHAM,
Illum’d by intellect, as gay in wealth,
Commands her aye-accumulating walls,
From month to month, to climb the adjacent hills;
Creep on the circling plains, now here, now there,
Divergent--change the hedges, thickets, trees,
Upturn’d, disrooted, into mortar’d piles,
The street elongate, and the statelier square.
So, with intent transmutant, Chemists bruise
The shrinking leaves and flowers, whose steams saline,
Congealing swift on the recipient’s sides,
Shoot into crystals;--and the night-frost thus
Insidious creeping on the watry plain,
Wave after wave incrusts, till liquid change
To solid, and support the volant foot.
Warn’d by the Muse, if Birmingham should draw,
In future years, from more congenial climes
Her massy ore, her labouring sons recall,
And sylvan Colebrook’s winding vales restore
To beauty and to song, content to draw
From unpoetic scenes her rattling stores,
Massy and dun; if, thence supplied, she fail,
Britain, to glut thy rage commercial, see
Grim WOLVERHAMPTON lights her smouldering fires,
And SHEFFIELD, smoke-involv’d; dim where she stands
Circled by lofty mountains, which condense
Her dark and spiral wreaths to drizzling rains,
Frequent and sullied; as the neighbouring hills
Ope their deep veins, and feed her cavern’d flames;
While, to her dusky sister, Ketley yields,[133]
From her long-desolate, and livid breast,
The ponderous metal. No aerial forms
On Sheffield’s arid moor, or Ketley’s heath,[134]
E’er wove the floral crowns, or smiling stretch’d
The shelly scepter;--there no Poet rov’d
To catch bright inspirations. Blush, ah, blush,
Thou venal Genius of these outraged groves,
And thy apostate head with thy soil’d wings
Veil!--who hast thus thy beauteous charge resign’d
To habitants ill-suited; hast allow’d
Their rattling forges, and their hammer’s din,
And hoarse, rude throats, to fright the gentle train,
Dryads, and fair hair’d Naiades;--the song,[135]
Once loud as sweet, of the wild woodland choir
To silence;--disenchant the poet’s spell,
And to a gloomy Erebus transform
The destined rival of Tempean vales.
INDEPENDENT INDUSTRY TRUE VIRTUE.
ADDRESSED TO
MR WILLIAM NEWTON,
WITH THE AUTHOR’S FORMER PUBLICATIONS.[136]
Thou gentle Bard, on whose internal sight
Genius has pour’d her many-coloured light;
With whom the loveliest of the Virtues dwell,
Waving their halcyon plumes around thy cell,
Though fortune, blind to merit, fail to throw
One gaudy trophy on thy pensive brow,
Conscious of worth, thy high, and free-born soul
Disdains to court her insolent controul.
Though yet proud fame no sunny glance has shed
On the low roof, that screens thy modest head,
The same exalted spirit scorns to wail
Her echoes silent in thy lonely vale.
Yet, while one votary of the Muses blames
The unjust neglect of those capricious dames,
O! may she stimulate that noble pride,
Which rather seeks in humblest roof to hide
Talents, which Nature’s bounty lavish gave,
Than, courting Fortune’s smile, commence her slave;
Than climb Parnassus’ steep and dangerous ways,
Than drop the rose of Peace to grasp the bays.
Thy quiet steps my fancy loves to trace
Through walks of savage, or of gentle grace;
And, pleas’d, she finds the scenes, that gave thee birth,
Types of thy lot, thy talents, and thy worth.
As conscious Memory, with reverted glance,
Roves the long-known and mountainous expanse,[137]
At once her pencil’s faithful traits restore
The windy tracts of Tideswell’s naked moor;
Stretch’d on vast hills, that in wide range prevail,
Bleak, stony, bare, monotonous, and pale.
Far on the waste, in noon-tide’s sultry rays,
The frequent lime-kiln flings the umber’d blaze.
Its suffocating smoke incessant breathes,
Shrouding the sun in black convolving wreaths;
And oft, with sullied ashes heapt around,
Sinks the dark mine, and blots the pallid ground.
In vain warm Spring demands her mantle green,
No sheltering hedges vivify the scene;
O’er its grey breast no undulating trees
Wave their bright foliage to the lively breeze,
But from the moor the rude, stone walls disjoin,
With angle sharp, and long unvarying line,
Each cheerless field, where, slowly wandering, feed
The lonely cow, and melancholy steed;
Expos’d abide the Summer’s sultry breath,
And wintry storm, that yells along the heath.
At length benigner mountains meet our eyes,
Whose shrubby heights, in rounder grace, arise;
And, from their first steep summit, pleas’d we throw
Our eager glances on the depths below,
As sinks abrupt the sylvan Monsaldale
From the fierce sun-beam, and the howling gale.
Behold, in front, the lucid river spread
The bankless waters o’er the sunny mead;
As of his broad, and sheety shallows proud,
Shine, the clear mirrour of the passing cloud;
Then, to the left, along the valley glide,
With soft meander, and in narrower tide,
Through banks, where thick the spreading alders grow,
And glassy waves reflect each pendent bough.
Refreshing sweets the breathing hay-cocks yield,
Richly that tuft the long and narrow field,
As graceful, to the right, it curves away
Round the green cliffs, with scatter’d ash-trees gay.[138]
Cliffs, whose smooth breast, above the shadow’d stream,
Swells to the sun, and yellows in his beam;
While on the opposing shore dwarf foliage hides,
Sombrous and soft, the mountain’s lofty sides,
Throwing its latest fringe upon the flood
That laves the concave of the shrubby wood,
Till down low rocks, disparted, moss’d, and steep,
In broken streams the frothing waters leap,
Then through the mazes of the rambling dale
Silent they lapse, or rush with tuneful wail.