O THOU!
Who from ""
Canst stoop to where the low brook runs!
Thro' space with rapid comets glow; —
Or mark where, soft, the snow-drops grow!
O THOU!
Whose burning Pen now rapture paints!
Then moralizes, cold, with Saints!
Now trembling ardors can infuse —
Then, seems as dipp'd in cloister'd dews —
O say! thy BEING quick declare,
Art thou a Son of Earth, or Air?
Celestial Bard! though thy sweet song
Might to a Seraph's strains belong,
Its wondrous beauty, and its art
Can only  not  my heart.
So Heaven-sent light'ning  plays,
And wanton, throws its purple rays;
It leaps through Night's scarce pervious gloom,
Attracted by the Rose's bloom;
Th' illumin'd shrub then quiv'ring round,
It seems each scented bud to wound;
Morn shakes her locks, and see the Rose
In renovated beauty blows!
Smiles at the dart which past away,
And flings her perfume on the day.