Did living genius here display The glory of her hallow'd ray; Proclaim a son, and proudly shed A halo bright around her head? Yes, Warton, here the rapturous fire First kindled from thy joyous lyre; When from its chords flash'd wild and free The thrilling strain of minstrelsy. Oh! if there be a gladd'ning power That cheers the heart in lonesome hour, A thought reviving to the breast, In solitude that woos its rest, Sure 'tis to feel, while yet alone, A soul congenial to one's own; By admiration, or by love Inspir'd, oh! how sweet to prove! So, Warton, when mine eye surveys Objects that oft have won thy gaze, And Fancy deems thy Spirit trace, E'en still, her earthly dwelling-place; A secret pleasure loves to brood On the lone lap of solitude, While joy pervades my inmost breast Whene'er these pensive eyes review Those sable lines of ancient yew High towering, whose gloomy brow Frowns o'er the classic walk below: Then musing lonely, oft will say, Here Warton 'erst has trill'd a lay, As there his lingering footsteps stray'd Beneath those limes' inviting shade, Whose ming'ling arms, fantastic, woo Repose in your fair avenue. Warton, adieu! my song is o'er; And silence reigns as heretofore, When thy last ling'ring accents fell To cheer this dark monastic cell. May 29.
