shows: 
  In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,
  Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
  And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! 
  Or thither, where, beneath the showery West,
  The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: 
  Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest;
  No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: 
  Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour,
  The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
  And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,
  In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold,
  And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

  X

  But oh, o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race,
  On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,
  Fair Nature’s daughter, Virtue, yet abides. 
  Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! 
  Then to my ear transmit some gentle song
  Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,
  Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,
  And all their prospect but the wintry main. 
  With sparing temperance, at the needful time,
  They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed,
  Along th’ Atlantic rock undreading climb,
  And of its eggs despoil the solan’s nest. 
  Thus blest in primal innocence they live,
  Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare
  Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. 
  Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;
  Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

  XI

Nor need’st thou blush, that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed; For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled in elder time th’ historic page.  There Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crowned,—­ [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]—­ In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found, And with their terrors dressed the magic scene.  From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed.  Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

  XII

  In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
  From sober truth, are still to nature true,
  And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view,
  Th’ heroic muse employed her Tasso’s art! 
  How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s stroke,
  Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured;
  When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
  And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! 
  How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,
  To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,—­
  Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
  Believed the magic wonders which he sung! 
  Hence at each sound imagination glows;
  [The MS. lacks a line here.]
  Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;
  Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,
  And fills th’ impassioned heart, and wins th’ harmonious ear.