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Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride,
Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss
Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)
Whose hoary Diadem of pendant rocks
Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round
Eddying within its vast circumference,
On Sarum's naked plain;—than Pyramid
Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved;
Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high
Above the sandy Desart, in the light
Of sun or moon.—Forgive me, if I say
That an appearance, which hath raised your minds
To an exalted pitch, (the self-same cause
Different effect producing) is for me
Fraught rather with depression than delight,
Though shame it were, could I not look around me,
By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased.
Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you,
With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed,
Is He (if such have ever entered here)
The wandering Herbalist,—who, clear alike
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts,
