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XIV.
TO THE POET, DYER.
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made
That Work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood stray'd,
Those southern Tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,
By green hills fenced, by Ocean's murmur lulled;"
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay
Long as the Shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.
