For ages worshipp'd by the Minstrel throng,
By rippling brook, in air, and field, and wood,
On mountain top, and ridge of billowy flood,
Nature! thou dost thy Maker mighty wrong.
Hast thou no speech to check the erring song?
Glows not thy beauteous cheek with mantling blood
Thyself to take His praise, "First Fair, First Good?"
Wilt thou this wild delusion still prolong?
Vain Idol! this thy folly thou shalt rue:
A voice is swelling on the mountain breeze,