He knows ye not in woodland gloom,
But wooes ye in the shelfed room;
And seeks you in the dusty nook,
And meets you in the letter’d book;
Full well he knows you by your names,
And still with poets faith your presence claims.

The youthful poet, pen in hand,
All by the side of blotted stand,
In rev’rie deep, which none may break,
Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek;
And well his inspiration knows,
E’en by the dewy drops that trickle o’er his nose.

The tuneful sage of riper fame,
Perceives you not in heated frame;
But at conclusion of his verse,
Which still his mutt’ring lips rehearse,
Oft’ waves his hand in grateful pride,
And owns the heav’nly pow’r that did his fancy guide.

O lovely sisters! is it true,
That they are all inspir’d by you? 
And while they write, with magic charm’d,
And high enthusiasm warm’d,
We may not question heav’nly lays,
For well I wot, they give you all the praise.

O lovely sisters! well it shews
How wide and far your bounty flows: 
Then why from me withhold your beams? 
Unvisited of heav’nly dreams,
Whene’er I aim at heights sublime,
Still downward am I call’d to seek some stubborn rhyme.

No hasty lightning breaks the gloom,
Nor flashing thoughts unsought for come,
Nor fancies wake in time of need;
I labour much with little speed;
And when my studied task is done,
Too well, alas!  I mark it for my own.

Yet should you never smile on me,
And rugged still my verses be;
Unpleasing to the tuneful train,
Who only prize a slowing strain;
And still the learned scorn my lays,
I’ll lift my heart to you, and sing your praise.

Your varied ministry to trace,
Your honour’d names, and godlike race;
And lofty bow’rs where fountains flow,
They’ll better sing who better know;
I praise ye not with Grecian lyre,
Nor will I hail ye daughters of a heathen fire.

Ye are the spirits who preside
In earth, and air, and ocean wide;
In hissing flood, and crackling fire;
In horror dread, and tumult dire;
In stilly calm, and stormy wind,
And rule the answ’ring changes in the human mind.

High on the tempest-beaten hill,
Your misty shapes ye shift at will;
The wild fantastic clouds ye form;
Your voice is in the midnight storm;
Whilst in the dark and lonely hour,
Oft’ starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret pow’r.

From you, when growling storms are past,
And light’ning ceases on the wade,
And when the scene of blood is o’er,
And groans of death are heard no more,
Still holds the mind each parted form,
Like after echoing of the o’erpassed storm.

When closing glooms o’erspread the day,
And what we love has pass’d away,
Ye kindly bid each pleasing scene
Within the bosom still remain,
Like moons who doth their watches run
With the reflected brightness of the parted sun.