The Poets of the Nineteenth Century

And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ;
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join,
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,

When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn:
Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for awhile;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

And villager abroad at early toil,

But, lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb,
When all in mist the world below was lost.
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,

Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
In darkness and in storm he found delight;
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
E'en sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear so sweet he wish'd not to control.

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