ODE
TO HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.
WRITTEN AT CRICKHOWEL, BRECONSHIRE.
I.
No bird in thicket, or in cage confined,
No hope, that fascinates the wearied mind;
No harp, by Nature's airy fingers strung,
Warble such music, as a woman's tongue!
Nor was a tongue of gentle woman-kind
Ever so sweetly mellowed to my mind.
Then take me,—lead me—up yon crested hill,
By shady forest, or by murmuring rill:
Beneath yon rock, or down yon valley deep;
Or lay me down in some cool Grot to sleep:—
Lead;—and I follow;—since to thee is given
The power of pointing out the road to Heaven!
