WRITTEN IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY .

The poet, is like one by fancy led,
Whose footsteps in the lonely morning press
Some stubborn hill of difficult access,
Which seems to lengthen on above his head,
As though it sported with his weariness.
His path is steeped in vapour dark as death,
And flooded with chill mist — whilst to and fro
Thousands, along the dusty road beneath,
Securely in bright sunshine come and go:
But ever, and anon, in that steep way
The sudden mountain gales, with joyous breath,
Uproot the seated clouds — the sun's warm ray
Leaps forth, and on wide plains below are thrown
Ethereal splendours, seen by him alone.