I love to rove o'er history's page,
Recal the hero, and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet's pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspir'd,
The bosom's energies are fir'd;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier:
To love the merry moonlight scene,
With fairy elves in vallies green;
Or borne on Fancy's heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the "native wood-notes wild"
Of him, the Muse's favorite child;
Of him whose magic lays impart,
Each various feeling to the heart.