Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.[40] Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth[41] 5 Whom, long endear'd, thou leavest by Levant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; 10 But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; 15 Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land. II. There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet, 20 Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill; There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots; By night they sip it round the cottage door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. 25 There, every herd, by sad experience, knows How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe the untutor'd swain: 30 Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect; Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. 35 III. E'en yet preserved, how often mayst thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son, Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a Spenser's ear. At every pause, before thy mind possest, 40 Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidst the well taught hind repeat The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave, 45 When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave! Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,[42] Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, 50 The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny swarms, And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms. IV.