The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre

Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, 95 Whether the blossom blows, the summerray

100

low,

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,

Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no

more,

And, dead to joy, forget ny heart to beat! Should fate command me to the farthest verge

Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,

Rivers unknown to song, where first the

sun

Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam

Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me;

Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full, And where he vital spreads there must be joy.

When even at last the solemn hour shall come,

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,

Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs and all their