Where awful summits rise around,
With wild and straggling flowerets crown'd;
'Tis there the poet loves to sigh,
And touch the harp of melody:
And wake the measure of delight,
Or melt in fairy visions bright:
And sometimes will his soul aspire,
And feel almost etherial fire.
Ah! then the fond enthusiast dreams,
(Enraptur'd with celestial themes,)
That happy spirits round him play,
And animate the magic lay:
Their floating forms his fancy sees,
And hears their music in the breeze.
Then, while the airy numbers die,
He wakes his sweetest harmony;
To imitate the heavenly strain,
Which memory fondly calls again.
To Fancy then he pours his song,
To her his wildest notes belong.
Oh! spirit of the lyre divine,
I deck with flowers thy sacred shrine;
Thus let me ever melt with thee,
In the soft dreams of poesy.