Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles that crown the Ægean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Meander's amber waves In lingering labyrinths creep, I How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound, Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains: Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face; the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year; Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy, Of Horror that, and thrilling Pears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
Nor second He that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy; The secrets of the abyss to spy, He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers[1] of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace.
Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more. O lyre divine! what dying spirit[2] Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride nor ample pinion That the Theban eagle[3] bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun; Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far--but far above the great.
[Footnote 1: 'Coursers:' the heroic rhymes.]