Who bids you bloom unblanch’d amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness—
Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands,
Blesses your pencil’d beauty. 'Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,