Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind
And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned:
But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire
Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined
In that diviner fane where Love's pure fire
Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!
The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows "in battalions" compel them to emigrate and bid
Farewell to the scenes they ne'er shall visit more.
The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the following exquisite ballad:—
Our native land, our native vale,