Thus, Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years. For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar, On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? their powers, inadequate before, This art preposterous renders more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. LII. Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth. Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device, Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat or laughter at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed, That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. LIII. Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave, He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along the horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew; Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. LIV. Thence, musing, onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds rolled on the vernal day, Even then he hastened from the haunt of man, Along the darkening wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. LV. Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village-youth were joined, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclined, Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly. To the pure soul, by Fancy's fire refined, Ah, what is mirth, but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! LVI. Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn! Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt, Of solitude and melancholy born? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. LVII.