Responsive to the lively pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, 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 seem'd 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? 56 Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Alas! 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. 57 For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; Song was his favourite and first pursuit. The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute. His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance as yet he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare. 58 Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance or search, was offer'd to his view, He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury controll'd And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. 59 Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern caves the storms are bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and, lo! The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. [5] 60 Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while, The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. But on this verse if Montagu should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame. And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind. [Footnote 1: There is hardly an ancient 'ballad' or romance, wherein a minstrel or a harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been 'of the north countrie'. It is probable that under this appellation were formerly comprehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent.--See 'Percy's Essay on the Minstrels'.]