On yon tall rock's projecting side,
See where the stripling bends his way,
To hang with rapture o'er the tide,
And tune a sweetly rustic lay.
Say what in sportive youth can move
To dwell on nature's varied hue?
What bids his bosom glow with love
And bathes his azure eye in dew?
What bids him hail the matin strain,
As morn's first blush illumes the vale;
And wake at midnight hour again,
To listen to the nightingale?
O Genius! 'twas thy strong control,
As o'er his cradle, from on high,
Thou way'd thy magnet o'er his soul,
And on his lips breath'd harmony.
Thy magic touch bade fancy rove,
As mind its early charms display'd;
Bade Shakspeare every passion move,
And Homer on his pillow laid.
Thou gav'st that fine perceptive sense,
Which throws o'er ev'ry scene its charm;
To joy will brighter joy dispense,
To grief more exquisite alarm.
Ah! dangerous gift, where bliss appears
But as the morn's first vivid ray,
And grief her mournful aspect rears
Through the long, lingering, weary day!
Yet siren Genius! still to thee
Thy captive pours the grateful strain,
To thee he bends the willing knee,
With all thy joys, with all thy pain.
Would Alwin that pure sense forego,
In tranquil apathy to rove?
'Ah! no,' he cries, 'with all thy woe
O stay and charm me with thy love!'