To gothic churches, vaults and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek. Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles, lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire; I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear: Give me another horse I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage?----what spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? 'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war; There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where tumult and destruction reign; Where mad with pain, the wounded steed, Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield. O guide me from this horrid scene To high-archt walks, and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervors of the mid-day sun. The pangs of absence, O remove, For thou can'st place me near my love. Can'st fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss; While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence. When young-eyed spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks, When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season, let my ear Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear. O warm enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unhallow'd strain; Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing. O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave. O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who fill'd with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new, unequall'd song, May rise above the rhyming throng. O'er all our list'ning passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain: With terror shake, and pity move, Rouze with revenge, or melt with love. O deign t' attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;