Classic Poem

T HE Pilgrim who has travers'd many a scene,
By Hope sustain'd, prophetic and serene,
When, all the perils of the journey past,
The labour of his love is crown'd at last,
Wrapt in mute wonder, though in Error's chain,
Feels a new spirit, and is born again.
Thus, my lov'd Hawkstone , when I come to thee,
An opening Paradise on earth I see;
Above the visible diurnal sphere,
The devious path contemplate and revere.
Till, musing on the charm thy scenes bestow,
My thoughts expand, and my conceptions glow;
Spring to thy summits with congenial height,
Or in thy cavern's gloom suspend the light,
With fearless prospect of the solar ray,
Whose temper'd beams the virgin's blush display.
With slow degrees of beautiful surprize,
The scene is open'd, and the curtains rise;
The shadows, half dispers'd with glimmering lights,
Present the mystic Druid's fabled rites.
His wizard spells, enlighten'd, we disdain;
But love the solitude's religious chain.
Remote from all that vain delights can give,
To Contemplation's brighter scene we live;
Till, half-inspir'd, and with hallow'd feet,
We pass the Hermit's venerable seat;
With elevated zeal of strength renew'd,
And led as by a Genius of the Wood.