That wake this world to muse on grander days:

A voice, whose silence is more strong than storms,

Shall conquer midnight in its soothing power;

The golden stars, from out their mazy swarms,

Chime with innumerous tongues the passing hour!

Nature’s epitome and Nature’s crown!

Replete with thee heaven’s minstrels murmur down.

{27}

{27}

XXVII.

Thy words, with what sweet purport oft they come,

Breathing, like scented gales, along the years;

Their wafted odours still increase their sum,

And steal the music of delicious tears:

Each bank, whose reeds speak to the clear calm wave,

Whose rippling emulates thy softer tone,

Each tree, that beckons to some sheltering cave,

The torrent near, whose ardour’s like thy own;

By each of these, a separate tale was told,

Each claims the tribute of distinctive thought;

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