I look for streams immortalised in song,
  That lost in silence and oblivion lie,
  (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,)
  Yet run for ever by the Muse’s skill,
  And in the smooth description murmur still. 
     Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
  And the famed river’s empty shores admire,
  That, destitute of strength, derives its course
  From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source,
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  Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
  With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
  So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme! 
  Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
  That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray’d,
  And unobserved in wild meanders play’d;
  Till by your lines and Nassau’s sword renowned,
  Its rising billows through the world resound,
  Where’er the hero’s godlike acts can pierce,
  Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
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     Oh could the Muse my ravished breast inspire
  With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
  Unnumbered beauties in my verse should shine,
  And Virgil’s Italy should yield to mine! 
     See how the golden groves around me smile,
  That shun the coast of Britain’s stormy isle,
  Or when transplanted and preserved with care,
  Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
  Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
  To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: 
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  Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
  And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
  Bear me, some god, to Baia’s gentle seats,
  Or cover me in Umbria’s green retreats;
  Where western gales eternally reside,
  And all the seasons lavish all their pride: 
  Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,
  And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 
     Immortal glories in my mind revive,
  And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
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  When Rome’s exalted beauties I descry
  Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. 
  An amphitheatre’s amazing height
  Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
  That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,
  And held uncrowded nations in its womb;
  Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies;
  And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
  Where the old Romans’ deathless acts displayed,
  Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid: 
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  Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
  And wondering at their height through airy channels flow. 
     Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,
  And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
  Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,
  And softened into flesh the rugged stone. 
  In solemn silence, a majestic band,
  Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand;
  Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
  And emperors in Parian marble frown;
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  While the bright dames, to whom they humble