Ah! might I range each hallow'd Bow'r and Glade, MUSOEUS cultur'd, many a raptur'd Sigh Would that dear local consciousnes supply, Beneath his Willow, in the Grotto's shade, Whose roof his Hand with Ores and Shells inlaid! How sweet to watch, with reverential eye, Thro' the sparr'd arch the Streams he oft survey'd— Thine, blue THAMESIS gently wand'ring by! This is the Poet's triumph; and it towers O'er Life's pale ills; — his consciousness of powers That lift his Mem'ry from Oblivion's gloom, Secures a train of these heart-thrilling hours, By his idea deck'd in Rapture's bloom, For Spirits rightly touch'd, through ages yet to come!
