With thee, divine Philosopher, I gazed Upon the mighty hills at dying day: The prodigal elements around us lay Rock'd like a babe to slumber; the sky blazed, Rich with vermilion fires, whose hue embraced Woods, rocks, — the lake in its romantic pride,— And then a flying sunbeam we descried Brightening up half the valley: Night erased Too soon the expressive picture, but to my heart Locked it as in the casket of sweet thought, Sacred to future fancy. Hast thou part In the fine dream, or is it all forgot? Oft on the fairy Spectacle I brood, The flowers, the hills return — vale — water — wood— And then — the beautiful Genius of the spot.
