Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn 70 And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon, Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve, Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought, And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns, From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way, Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth, Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career. Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame, That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom, 80 Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young-- Young, Thought's Oeconomist, who wove reproof Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone; Whose Invitation was assault: he found The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear. Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream, The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend With his Creation; when he led the Eye Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring; And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream, 90 And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace. Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb? Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm; But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page, And led thy weary plowman from the field, 100 And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod, And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough, And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds, Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume. And Winter too was thine! permit me there To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.-- Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire, Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd Imagination's pleasures to its Eye; 110 His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine; His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns; And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike, At that dread Hour when the officious Friend, Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss, May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul, And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies, Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.-- Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same, And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls, 120 Both sentenc'd to Contempt--unletter'd pride-- Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him Who soars above or labours in the Clouds, Who travels the sublime, or dives profound In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream: He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill That owns him Lord untasted steals away, Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.