Led on, my steps prevaded thy secret shrine,
Yordas, where, hid from Phoebus' garish eye,
With Contemplation, thy compeer, thou sit'st,
And, like a curtain, spread'st thy cloud of night
Around thy throne;- I feel, I feel thee near.
Full many a young idea, that ere this
Hath slept in silence, at thy thrilling call
Starts from its trance, and, kindling into life,
With joy and mingled awe attemper'd swells
My crowded soul; and ever and anon,
As at the wizard's call, my straining eye,
Quick glancing, sees a thousand fleeting shapes,
Scatter'd from bright-ey'd Fancy's dewy plume.

Parent of Horrors, hail! To my fix'd eye
Thy scared form, in these, these solemn scenes
Reveal'd descends; and O! more awful far
This great design, grav'd by fair Nature's hand,
These frowning rocks and mineral roofs, reflect
Thy semblance, than could Raphael's warmth devise,
Than Phidias' featur'd marble: and thy voice,
Borne on the panting wing of each low blast
That sigh's along the vault, awakes the soul
To feelings more ennobled than the lyre
Of Orpheus, or the rapture-breathing strains
Of Handel, e'er inspir'd. O, may I oft,
In this Egerian cave, Great Power, attend
Thy sacred presence: here with nature's self
Hold converse; till, by just degrees, the mind
Through Science's footsteps pierce the harmonious maze
Of scared order, and to brighter views
From day to day aspiring, trace at length,
Through all the wonders of the nether world,
The' Eternal Cause; to him on raptures wing
Dart her swift flight, and scale the walls of heaven.