O THOU young worshipper at nature's throne,
Whom she hath blest with that electric spirit,
That genius, which hath stampt thee for her own,
And which her votaries may alone inherit!
Grieve not while gazing on the mountain brow,
The rocky precipice, or torrent's roar,
That strange emotions bid thine eye o'erflow,
And that thy heart in trouble doth adore
The glory that is round thee; there are few
Form'd to partake a joy so pure and holy,
As is that high and tender melancholy,
To every finer feeling ever true;
Then O repine not that thy throbbing vein
Is keenly strung alike to pleasure and to pain.

O THOU young worshipper at nature's throne,
Whom she hath blest with that electric spirit,
That genius, which hath stampt thee for her own,
And which her votaries may alone inherit!
Grieve not while gazing on the mountain brow,
The rocky precipice, or torrent's roar,
That strange emotions bid thine eye o'erflow,
And that thy heart in trouble doth adore
The glory that is round thee; there are few
Form'd to partake a joy so pure and holy,
As is that high and tender melancholy,
To every finer feeling ever true;
Then O repine not that thy throbbing vein
Is keenly strung alike to pleasure and to pain.