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Updated: June 29, 2025
Midst these dun woods, and mountains steep, Midst the wild horrors of yon desert deep, Midst yawning caverns, wat'ry dells, Midst long, sequestered aisles, and peaceful cells, No passions fell distract the mind, To Nature, Silence, and Herself consign'd.
For fable is Love's world, his home, his birthplace: Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays, and talismans, And spirits, and delightedly believes Divinities, being himself divine The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power,the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and wat'ry depths all these have vanish'd; They live no longer in the faith of reason!
Should there be any God whose care I am it is incumbent on all the Gods to see that he enjoys his amorous pleasure. Wretch that I am! Nothing is more true, and he says very appropriately, What, are you sane, who at this rate lament? He seems even to his friends to be out of his senses: then how tragical he becomes! Thy aid, divine Apollo, I implore, And thine, dread ruler of the wat'ry store!
In his natural condition, he can at least realize the happy picture which the poet has drawn of him: "Lo the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven, Some safer world in depth of wood embraced; Some happier island in the wat'ry waste,
"Is this death?" she cried. "Yes, this is death." "It is not death, but joy!" And as she spoke the spot where they were seen Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves: While high above the summer sun shone on A passing seabird hoarsely shriek'd along! All things were changed, with that vast change which makes It seem as tho' nought else had ever been.
And in this cool freshness we hear the song of the lark: "The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings; He takes this window for the east; And to implore your light, he sings; 'Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
To whom, his eldest born, th' Eternal gave Dominion o'er the heart; and taught to touch Its varied stops in sweetest unison; And strike the string that from a kindred breast Responsive vibrates! from the noisy haunts Of mercantile confusion, where thy voice Is heard not; from the meretricious glare Of crowded theatres, where in thy place Sits Sensibility, with wat'ry eye, Dropping o'er fancied woes her useless tear; Come thou, and weep with me substantial ills; And execrate the wrongs that Afric's sons, Torn from their natal shore, and doom'd to bear The yoke of servitude in foreign climes, Sustain.
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