And in the witching hour of night,
Whilst thy pale sister lends her shadowy light,
Summon the naked wood-nymphs to my sight.
Trembling now with giddy tread,
Press the moss on Gowdar's head.
But lo! where sits the bird of Jove,
Couch'd in his eyrie far above;
Oh! lend thine eye, thy pinion lend,
Higher, yet higher let me still ascend.
'Tis done - my forehead smites the skies,
To the last summit of the cliff I rise:
I touch the sacred ground,
Where step of man was never found;
I see all nature's rude domain around.
Peace to thy empire, queen of calm desires,
Health crown thy hills, and plenty robe thy vales;
May thy groves wave untouch'd by wasteful fires,
Nor commerce crowd thy lakes with sordid sails!
Press not so fast upon my aching sight,
Gigantic shapes; nor rear your heads so high,
As if meant to war against the sky,
Sons of old chaos and primaeval night.
Such were the heights enshrined Bruno trod,
When on the cliffs he hung his tow'ring cell,
Amongst the clouds aspir'd to dwell,
And half-ascended to his God.
The prim canal, the level green,
The close-clipt hedge, that bounds the flourish'd scene,
What rapture can such forms impart,
With all the spruce impertinence of art!
Ye pageant streams, that roll in state
By the vain windows of the great,
Rest on your muddy ooze, and see /