But, Fancy, downward urge thy flight.
On some mountain's towering height,
With hoary frosts eternal crown'd,
Rapt with dusky vapours round,
Let me fix my stedfast feet.
I feel, I feel the fanning gales;
The wat'ry mists beneath retreat.
The noontide ray now darts its heat,
And pours its glories o'er the vales.
Glittering to the dancing beams,
Urging their stubborn way the rocks among,
I hear, and see a thousand streams
Foam, and roar, and rush along.
But to the plains descended,
Their sudden rage is ended.
Now lost in deep recess of darksome bowers.
Again now sparkling thro' the meads
Vested soft with vernal flowers,
Reflecting the majestic towers,
Its peaceful flood the roving channel leads.
There the rural cots are seen.
From whose low roof the curling smoke ascends,
And dims with blueish volumes all the green.
There some forest far extends
Its groves embrown'd with lengthen'd shade;
Embosom'd where some Gothic seat,
Of monarchs once retreat;
In wild magnificence array'd,
The pride of ancient times presents,
And lifts, in contrast fair display'd,
Its sun-reflecting battlements.