Oft as I trod my native wilds alone,
Strong gusts of thought wou'd rise, but rise to die;
The portals of the swelling soul, ne'er op'd
By liberal converse, rude ideas strove
Awhile for vent, but found it not, and died.
Thus rust the Mind's best powers. Yon starry orbs,
Majestic ocean, flowery vales, gay groves,
Eye-wasting lawns, and Heaven-attempting hills,
Which bound th'horizon, and which curb the view;
All those, with beauteous imagery awak'd
My ravish'd soul to extacy untaught,
To all the transport the rapt sense can bear;
But all expir'd, for want of powers to speak;
All perish'd in the mind as soon as born,
Eras'd more quick than cyphers on the shore,
O'er which the cruel waves, unheedful, roll.