DRUID .

S LOW , from forth the eastern Gate,
Drench'd in Dew, steps rosy Morn;
On her fair hand, in scepter'd state,
Yon beamy Lustre that she long hath borne
Before the Sun's wide-gleaming car:
High strains that ring from every crystal star,
Heaven-breathed sounds, proclaim the approaching God;
Earth bids her towering summits bow,
Low every Mountain bends his reverend brow,
And Mona's central Oaks in dumb devotion nod.
Begin, ye Bards, the harmonious Rites begin,
That, with due Song the day-dawn ushering in,
To holiest muse the swelling Soul ye raise;
And strike from your stern'st strings the notes of fearful Praise!