RATHER than sink, said I, attempt to raise
My Hopes, nor talk of Ceremonial Days;
His God is present still, and hears him when he prays.
Thus said, urging my Steed with eager Haste,
Swift as a Mountain Roe, the Plains I pass'd;
O'er Hills and Dales my Journey I pursu'd;
Nor slack'd my Pace, till  Mount I view'd;
On whose delightful Brow, in cool Retreat,
Among the curling Vines, the Prophet sat;
Whose twining Arms a verdant Arbour made;
The verdant Arbour form'd a grateful Shade;
The fanning Zephyrs gently play'd around,
And shook the trembling Leaves, and swept the Ground;
Down humbly at his Feet I prostrate fell,
Submiss; and, weeping, told the mournful Tale.