On His Way Back to England, After Having Visited the Italian Cities with Mr Walpole

Hail, guardian of this deep severe retreat, Divine Religion! by whatever name Thou would’st my lips thy sacred power should greet: No common power these solemn scenes proclaim.

Here, ’mid the desert cliffs that sternly frown, O’er trackless mountains as my slow step roves, These giant rocks, that waving pines embrown, These roaring waters, and this night of groves,

To my aw’d spirit, and my throbbing heart Plainer a present DEITY disclose, Than Raphael tints, or Phidian forms impart When bright with gold the fragrant altar glows.

Hail, solemn scenes! and to my wearied mind Your sheltering shades, your placid quiet yield; But O! should fate deny my youth to find In your wrapt silence a protecting shield,

Swift should she bear me to the vortex wild, By human strife in storms perpetual whirl’d, Grant me, kind Heaven, some climate lone and mild, Some vale sequester’d from the struggling world!

Where, free from vulgar tumults of the vain, Calm I may feel my vital powers decay, And all unvex’d, at least by mental pain, Meet the long night with hope of endless day!