Her sanctuary; now the city's pomp,
Her palaces, her domes, that tow'r amidst
A grove of olive; now the peaceful scenes
Of pastoral repose, the shepherd's car,
The wand'ring herds, the vineyards overspread
With purple radiance, and the deep shades
Of rocks and woods which on thy waters sleep.
But ere thou minglest with the ocean's wave,
Lead me, Penëus, by thy winding banks,
To Tempe, to that deep sequester'd vale,
The theme of poets and th' abode of Gods;
There let me wander. Tow'ring on each side,
The mighty bulwarks of these flow'ry fields,
Stand Ossa and Olympus, giant forms;
Awful they rise, like those two sons of earth,
Who here with sov'reign Jove wag'd impious war,
Briarëus and Typhon; their broad cliffs
Riven by the tempest into wildest shapes
Of tow'r and minaret, or massive arch,
Bold pushing forward, meet the glare of day,
Or deep recede into the purple gloom
Of glen and cavern, where no wand'ring beam
Can enter; down their rugged sides thick copse
Of bay, of wild-fig, and pomegranate spreads
Beneath the storm-bleach'd oak; and bindweed hangs
Its filaments, in long and easy curves,
O'er ev'ry shatter'd crag and mould'ring stone.
And lovely is the scene of peace which sleeps
Beneath the moving shadow of that cloud;
How calm reposes ev'ry dell and vale
Embosom'd in the mountain; yon gray knoll
Tufted with trees, and gently sloping down
To meet the glitt'ring stream, where it expands
Into a lake of crystal, is the spot
Where Pan, surrounded with the joyous choir
Of nymphs and swains, erst revell'd to the sound
Of his soft rustic reed; e'en now it breathes
Silence and pastoral tranquillity;
The peasant there still warbles his rude song
To oaten pipe, and thence at dawn of day
Leads forth his goats to pasture. Nature here
Wantons luxuriant; to yonder elm
The vine clings gracefully, and round his vast
And wither'd limbs her pliant tendrils throws,
Like Beauty leaning on the arm of Age.
The ivy clust'ring o'er the knotted trunk
Of oak or olive, intermingles close
Its leaves, and, blending its deep sombre hues
With their more vivid foliage, forms a bow'r
Impenetrable to the noon-day sun,
Thy haunt, Penëus, when through thickets wild
Of bay and platane woods, which bow their heads
To taste thy waters, thou roll'st murm'ring on,
Transported with the scenes which round thee rise. 385
Happy the ancient bard, whose mental eye,
Clear'd from the film that veils our duller sight,
Beheld in ev'ry mountain, tree, and rill,
A beauteous race of sylvan Deities,
The wild creation of poetic taste.
When he thro' Tempe's valley musing roam'd,
Around his steps, from ev'ry oak and pine,
The Dryads came, and wav'd their moss-grown boughs
In murmurs o'er his head; the Naiads pour'd
Their sparkling waters from their marble urns
In streams that gush'd across his upland path,
Or in the slumb'ring lake, whose limpid breast
Reflected clear each rock and pendent shrub,
Dash'd from their snowy limbs the pearly wave
Disporting, whilst from ev'ry purple hill
The bending Oreads listen'd to his lyre.
He saw their graceful forms, he felt their pow'r,
And bolder struck upon the ringing chords
The strain of inspiration, fit to greet
Celestial audience. Bards of later days,
Although no heav'nly guests attend your steps,
Mourn not the change; your vivid minds supply
From Fancy's treasures an ideal race,
To fill the solitudes of Tempe's vale.
Lo! at your voice the mighty spirits rise,
And ev'ry passion of the soul by turns
Assumes a shape congenial to the scene,
Gloomy or gay, terrific or sublime,
ye command.-On lawn, in shady bow'r, Close by a stream whose murm'ring eddies curl Round stone, or golden sand, or broken bough, Hope sits enamour'd of the calm retreat,
Watching, with eye uprais'd, the morning sun
Spread o'er the mountains. But where pointed cliffs
Rise bleak and savage, and the gathered shade
Of melancholy cypress veils the day;
Where not a sound is heard, save the dank drop
Of water from a cave, or falling leaf
Breaking the death-like silence, there the form
Of Madness rests upon his bed of flint:
His hand is clench'd across his throbbing breast,
His pale limbs, shrinking to the blast, are bound
With tatter'd rags, his matted hair entwin'd
With reed and wither'd flow'rs, half shrouds a cheek
That never smiles, an eye that cannot weep.
'Tis noon, and the fierce sun, with ray intense, Glares on Thessalia's plain; its breast receives The broad effulgence, and reflects it back
E'en to the cope of Heav'n, which glows above,
Vaulted with fire; dreary and sad the view
Expands around, an arid waste, a sea
Of sand, which to th' horizon's utmost verge
Stretches; no breeze is felt from hill or vale
Wafting fresh odours, but each herb and flow'r
Declines its head; and ev'ry reed that shades
The river's bank is still; the fever'd herds
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