Thespia XXX: O Thou! who climb'st at morn the mountain high

O Thou! who climb'st at morn the mountain high,
Viewing th' impurpled East with joyful eye,
Thence with light step descending to the vale,
Imbibest with extasy the breezy gale!
Or piercing thro' some covert yet untried,
Beating the moist, o'er-hanging boughs aside,
Still movest delighted on with nimble pace,
The sprinkled dew-drops glittering in thy face,
Listening the brook which idly brawls along,
And every plumed Warbler's matin song!
Or when the burnish'd Car by Phoebus roll'd,
Darts more intense it's rays of liquid gold,
Beneath some ivy-fringed cave reclined,
Fancy's bright Visions rushing on thy Mind,
With spirits bland, nursed by the genial Powers,
Soothest with melodious notes the sultry hours!

Nor less when each gay verdant scene is lost,
And Winter shoots his darts of polar frost,
With Exercise thy Sister, pleased, to brave
The Winds fierce issuing from their stormy cave!
Fleet o'er the smooth and ice-bound lake to skim,
While the blood glows in every active limb!
To follow where the Hounds direct their speed,
Urging o'er hill and dale the rapid Steed!
Or by the social blaze, with cheerful breast
Prompting the tale of mirth and frolic jest,
The rural laugh which springs from heart-felt glee,
The sprightly dance, and artless minstrelsy!
Hygeia! Fairest Nymph of Dian's train!
Ah! why by Me so long pursued in vain!

I see thee not, when beams Morn's purple light,
When shines the Sun with mid-day fervour bright,
I meet thee not upon the mountain's brow,
In the wild woodland, or the vale below,
Nor by the pratling brook with osiers crown'd,
Nor in the cave with flaunting ivy bound;
And when the Minstrel sings with heart-felt glee,
To Him confest, thy charms are hid from Me.
Hygeia! Fairest Nymph of Dian's train!
Ah! why by me so long pursued in vain!

Yet sometimes at a distance, I survey,
But dim, and thro' a cloud, thy paler ray.
I snatch the lucid interval, and soar
Awhile with swift-wing'd Fancy as of yore;
The Muses invocate, with zealous prayer,
Nor unpropitious do the Muses hear;
Till the cloud thickening, veils thy beams in Night,
Fancy prone sinks from her aerial height:
Pain whets his stings, their torpid force prevails,
The venom spreads, the mental ardour fails.

Still fly Hygeia! drooping Fancy fly!
A sacred Power there is, forever nigh.
Love, in thy shape My Thespia, stands unmoved;
Love ne'er deserts what once it truly loved.
Sickness still more forbids it's bonds to start,
And pity softens more it's tender heart:
A gentler, but more strong attraction reigns;
And milder energies new-brace it's chains.

While then My Thespia's looks each care beguile,
While in her presence pain and languor smile,
While on the mind She pours an healing balm,
And binds it's tempests in an Halcyon calm,
Awakens hope, and banishes despair,
And tho' I feel, yet teaches Me to bear;
Still fly Hygeia! Thou too Fancy fly!
A strengthening soul-inspiring Power is nigh.
Let That, her influence; This, her strains refuse;
Thou shalt be Health my Thespia, Thou the Muse.