To Mr. Watts, on his POEMS sacred to Devotion.
I
To murmuring streams in tender strains,
My pensive muse no more
Of love's enchanting force complains
Along the flow'ry shore.
II
No more Mirtillo's fatal face
My quiet breast alarms,
His eyes, his air, and youthful grace
Have lost their usual charms.
III
No gay Alexis in the grove
Shall be my future theme;
I burn with an immortal love,
And sing a purer flame.
IV
Seraphic heights I seem to gain,
And sacred transports feel;
While, Watts, to thy celestial strain
Surpriz'd I listen still.
V
The gliding streams their course forbear,
When I thy lays repeat;
The bending forest lends an ear,
The birds their notes forget.
VI
With such a grateful harmony
Thy numbers still prolong,
And let remotest lands reply,
And echo to thy song.
VII
Far as the distant regions where
The beauteous morning springs,
And scatters odours thro' the air
From her resplendent wings;
VIII
Unto the new-found realms which see
The latter sun arise,
When with an easy progress he
Rolls down the nether skies.
