No! vain the varied wreath of tuneful song 405
If the heart’s language speak not with the tongue!
Without true feeling, bright the page may be,
But ’tis a cold and fickle brilliancy,
The dazzling light of the sun’s glancing rays,
When on the glacier’s arrowy point it plays; 410
Oh! fairer far that sun’s refulgent lines,
Where on the cotter’s roof its brightness shines,
Gilding the village green, the ivied tower,
Tipping with light each blade and dewy flower;