ON THE LYDFORD WATERFALL. 217 



Beneath fair bloom the flowers in mingling dyes, 



And water shrubs along the margin rise; 



So thick and gay, no hand of man had care 



With toil or studious art to plant them there ; 



But ever springing as the seasons run, 



Spread their young foreheads to the nursing Sun ; 



In balmy showers their growing leaves unclose. 



And scent each breeze that o'er the forest blows. 



Such place had been in classic days of eld 



By pastoral gods with sacred joy beheld ; 



Here ancient Pan had tuned his reed, and all 



The mirthsome Dryads hailed the favorite call ; 



With bounding Fauns some sportive measure wove 



By Lyd's gay margin and romantic grove, 



'Till music's echoes bade the wild rejoice, 



And rugged rocks sighed back the tuneful voice. 



For me, my sylvan Harp, unheedful strung, 

 On the witch-elm beside the Cataract hung ; 

 Hath felt at intervals the passing breeze 

 Swell o'er its chords, and soften by degrees — 

 Still lingering, — as in timid love to ask 

 The wonted tribute of this spell-born task ! 

 Where winds and waters every echo fill 

 With noble promptings to poetic skill ; 

 Such as, by common ear unheard, unknown, 

 Inspire and charm the Poet's heart alone ; 

 Whose spirit moulded by some secret power 

 Yields to the unseen Genius of the Bower ; — 

 Yet as he sings, but only half reveals 

 The winning sense his eager bosom feels, 

 In wood or wild, in forest, or in glen. 

 Taught by the secret soul that warms him then. 



From " Castalian Hours" 



VOL. V. — 1835. 



