And see--the torrent's rocky floor, With names and dates all scribbled o'er, Vile blurs on nature's heraldry; O bid your river in its race, These mean memorials soon efface, And keep your own proud album free.
Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers, But soon Autumnus with his showers, Shall all thy wasted strength restore; Then will these ramblers down thy steep, With terror pale their distance keep, Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.
But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage, One name upon thy stony page; 'Tis hers--the fairest of the fair; And when she comes these scenes to scan, Then tell her, Echo, if you can, His humble name who wrote it there.
And am I doom'd to be denied for ever The blessings that to all around are given? And shall those links be re-united ever, That bound me to mankind till they were riven In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever From social intercourse, the doom of heaven Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain, That the decree may be recall'd again.
Amid a throng in deep attention bound, To catch the accents that from others fall, The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound Breathed from the soul of melody, while all Instructed or delighted list around, Vacant unconsciousness must _me_ enthrall! I can but watch each animated face, And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.
Unheard, unheeded are the lips by _me_, To others that unfold some heaven-born art, And melody--Oh, dearest melody! How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart, Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy, Bidding the spirit at thy magic start! How had my heart responsive to the strain, Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.
In vain--alas, in vain! thy numbers roll-- Within my heart no echo they inspire; Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control, To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire, Misfortune closed the portals of the soul; And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre, That can to animation kindle stone, To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.
They say that afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.