Thy words, with what sweet purport oft they come,
Breathing, like scented gales, along the years;
Their wafted odours still increase their sum,
And steal the music of delicious tears:
Each bank, whose reeds speak to the clear calm wave,
Whose rippling emulates thy softer tone,
Each tree, that beckons to some sheltering cave,
The torrent near, whose ardour’s like thy own;
By each of these, a separate tale was told,
Each claims the tribute of distinctive thought;
Here poetry’s witchcraft grew, with fostering, bold,
Here youth waxed amorous of what nature taught:
These still remain, nurturing such goodly seed,
Recall each word, and meditate each deed.