Aerial Spirits, who forsook your sky To whisper charmed sounds in THOMSON'S ear, Or shaded from the ken of grosser eye, Did to the Bard in holy trance appear; Still guard the sacred grove which once was dear, On every leaf enweave a druid-spell, And say to the profane, should such come near, Here did the "woodland pilgrim" form his cell; The priest of Nature here his temple plac'd, And rais'd the incense of his song on high; With sylvan honours was his altar grac'd, His harp was tun'd to heav'nly psalmistry: Here did he pour to Nature's GOD the strain!— And should you scorn the worship, shun the fane.
