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490
LINES Written at Stratford-on-Avon.
WHY roves the eye in eager search to see
Whate'er, great Bard, can lead the thoughts to thee;
Why does it hurry from each object new,
That crowds ambitious on the anxious view;
The gaudier domes of Pleasure and of Pride,
And throws them all, as nothing worth, aside?
Why strays wild Vision till it finds the spot,
Where stands that poor, but consecrated cot;
Where humble parents blest a lowly birth,
That since has fill'd with fame thy natal earth?
There, charm'd and aw'd, why does th'enraptur'd sight
Fix, with mute wonder and a fond delight,
On things uncouth, and old, and objects mean,
That bears the marks of what Thine eye has seen?
Whatever Nature's darling might recal,
Thy natal habitation, coarse and small;
Its crumbling brick-work, mix'd with black'ning wood,
And ev'n the ground whereon the dwelling stood;
In better days, when Fame and Fortune smil'd,
And strove which most should bless their fav'rite child?
Whate'er, great Bard, can lead the thoughts to thee;
Why does it hurry from each object new,
That crowds ambitious on the anxious view;
The gaudier domes of Pleasure and of Pride,
And throws them all, as nothing worth, aside?
Why strays wild Vision till it finds the spot,
Where stands that poor, but consecrated cot;
Where humble parents blest a lowly birth,
That since has fill'd with fame thy natal earth?
There, charm'd and aw'd, why does th'enraptur'd sight
Fix, with mute wonder and a fond delight,
On things uncouth, and old, and objects mean,
That bears the marks of what Thine eye has seen?
Whatever Nature's darling might recal,
Thy natal habitation, coarse and small;
Its crumbling brick-work, mix'd with black'ning wood,
And ev'n the ground whereon the dwelling stood;
In better days, when Fame and Fortune smil'd,
And strove which most should bless their fav'rite child?
And last, though not least dear to every age,
His honour'd tomb! say, why do these engage
The passenger?—O, sacred GENIUS tell!
For thine the magic, thine the wonderous spell.
'Tis not from love of venerable things,
The bones of heroes, and the dust of kings;
These may in dark oblivious silence rot,
The truncheon and the sceptre both forgot;
'Tis deathless Genius, with a force divine;
Our homage claims, and draws us to its shrine.
His honour'd tomb! say, why do these engage
491
For thine the magic, thine the wonderous spell.
'Tis not from love of venerable things,
The bones of heroes, and the dust of kings;
These may in dark oblivious silence rot,
The truncheon and the sceptre both forgot;
'Tis deathless Genius, with a force divine;
Our homage claims, and draws us to its shrine.
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