While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Mid fall of waters, you reside,
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and glassy glades between:
'Mid forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye :
My noonday walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the path of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For Thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile :
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden green and herbage crowned,
And streams shall murmur all around.
O Thou, the friend of man assigned
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe:
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!
But wherefore need I wander far
To old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arno, too, has heard thy strains,
And echo, 'midst my native plains,
Been soothed by Pity's lute.
Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toil shall well relate
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail:
The buskin muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retired by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!
Lo! streams that April could not check,
Are patient of thy rule,
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool:
By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle mists, as glide
Curling with unconfirm'd intent
On that green mountain's side.
Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour
A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!
Neque uno Luna rubens nitet
Vultu." HOR.
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn:
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove
To the confiding bark untrue;
And if she trusts the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous oak in pomp outspread
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.
But thou art true, incarnate Lord,
Who did'st vouchsafe for man to die;
Thy smile is sure; Thy plighted word
No change can falsify.
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