Though I ne’er have beheld thee, yet bound in thy spell,
My bosom thine echoes still onward would swell—
Would enshrine in my song the sweet soul of thy strains,
Till fresh incense should rise from our mountains and plains.
Though long on the altar thou’st kindled the fire,
Oh how shall it burn on the strings of the lyre!
’Tis the music of Nature sublimed in thy lays
Which has won thee thy guerdon of lore and of praise;
’Tis hence that the depths of the spirit it thrills,
That responses start forth from mountains and hills,