Classic Poem

From distant moor-land heights descending,
How swiftly rolls this stream away!
Say, whither, Eden, art thou hasting?
Stay, impetuous river, stay,

And hear a rural muse address thee,
Who thy steep woody banks along,
By these rude scenes once more awaken'd,
Pours again th' unstudied song.

From other plains afar, a wand'rer,
I thy loud sounding stream have sought,
Beside thy darkly rolling waters,
T' indulge the pensive dreams of thought.

Here, when the full-orb'd moon ascending
Sheds her radiant light serene,
And round a softer day diffuses
O'er this wild and rugged scene;

Here would I love unseen to ramble
Around this rocky lone recess,
Form'd by the windings of the river,
A sweet sequester'd wilderness;

Amid the roar of dashing waters,
That sweep on every side around,
Mingled with the hollow murmurs
Of the deep current under ground.

Sweet as the voice of sweetest music
Is the wild torrent's roar to me;
The foam upon its broken surface,
'Mid pointed crags, I love to see.

But hear I may no longer listen
This rapid current, nor survey
Its waves down shelving rocks swift tumbling;
For ev'ning calls my steps away.

Through many a lovely vale meand'ring,
Of thee shall other poets tell;
I may perhaps no more behold thee,
Eden, to thy dark stream farewell!