With languid streams where icy Heber flows
Or Rhodopé’s high-towering head,
Where frantic choirs barbarian measures tread.
O’er pathless rocks, through lonely groves,
With what delight my raptured spirit roves!
O thou, who rul’st the Naiad’s breast;
By whom the Bacchanalian maids, possessed
With sacred rage inspired by thee,
Tear from the bursting glebe th’ uprooted tree;
Nothing or low, or mean, I sing,