When as a letter'd stranger thou wert sought, Ingenuous Grahame! much though I admir'd Thy sober sense, though much my heart desir'd Again to greet thee, — little was I taught That thou hadst claims upon my better thought Of more than mortal binding; that, inspir'd By heavenly musings, thou hadst oft retir'd, Like him in holy vision upward caught, And commun'd with thy Maker: while each field Became a temple consecrate with praise; Each grove an altar, which could incense yield To the great Shepherd! — Oh, may I oft raise My feeble voice in fellowship divine, While the rapt sabbath of the soul is thine!
