ODE

To the Genius of Westmorland.

Hail, hidden Power of these wild groves,
These uncouth rocks and mountains grey;
Where oft, as fades the closing day,
The family of fancy roves.

In what lone cave, what secret cell,
Coeval with the birth of time,
Wrapt in high cares, and thought sublime,
In awful silence dost thou dwell!

Oft in the depth of winter's reign,
As blew the dark winds o'er the dale,
Moaning along the distant gale,
Has fancy heard thy voice complain.

Oft in the dark wood's lonely way,
Swift has she seen thee glancing by;
Or down the summer evening sky,
Sporting in clouds of gilded day.

I caught from thee the sacred fire,
That glow'd within my youthful breast;-
Those thoughts too high to be express'd,
Genius, if thou didst once inspire.

O! pleas'd, accept this votive lay,
That in my native shade retir'd,
And once, once more by thee inspir'd,
In gratitude I pay.