SONNET XX.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade, Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid. How sweet to watch, with reverential eye, Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd, Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by! This is the POET's triumph, and it towers O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom, Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom, For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.