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POWER OF
Vain were the toil, the mystic spring of thought,Like lightning, shivers, but can ne'er be caught.
Hence too, with majesty supremely rudeWhere nature frowns in deepest solitude,The local genius, as unawed he bravesImpending cataracts, or giant caves,Feels all his soul dilate with zeal sublime,Its grandeur heightening with the kindred clime.
Nor less the scenes, where varied beauties shine,To gentler feelings lend a charm divine;Silence and gloom a holier peace inspire,Free the prest heart, and cool the fierce desire;E'en sadness, pausing o'er her woes awhile,Relents her brow, and wakes a transient smile.
Blest link of being, whence successive thoughtLeaps into life, in social order wrought,
