These, in their course, As with one shout of acclamation, praise Thee, LORD! thee, FATHER! thee, ALMIGHTY KING! 280 Maker of earth and heaven! Nor less the flower That shakes its purple head, and smiles unseen Upon the mountain's van; nor less the stream That tinkles through the cliff-encircled bourne, Cheering with music the lone place, proclaim: In wisdom, Father, hast thou made them all! Scenes of retired sublimity, that fill With fearful ecstasy and holy trance The pausing mind! we leave your awful gloom, And lo! the footway plank, that leads across 290 The narrow torrent, foaming through the chasm Below; the rugged stones are washed and worn Into a thousand shapes, and hollows scooped By long attrition of the ceaseless surge, Smooth, deep, and polished as the marble urn, In their hard forms.

Here let us sit, and watch The struggling current burst its headlong way, Hearing the noise it makes, and musing much On the strange changes of this nether world.
How many ages must have swept to dust 300 The still succeeding multitudes, that "fret Their little hour" upon this restless scene, Or ere the sweeping waters could have cut The solid rock so deep! As now its roar Comes hollow from below, methinks we hear The noise of generations, as they pass, O'er the frail arch of earthly vanity, To silence and oblivion.

The loud coil Ne'er ceases; as the running river sounds From age to age, though each particular wave 310 That made its brief noise, as it hurried on, Ev'n whilst we speak, is past, and heard no more; So ever to the ear of Heaven ascends The long, loud murmur of the rolling globe; Its strife, its toils, its sighs, its shouts, the same! But lo! upon the hilly croft, and scarce Distinguished from the crags, the peasant hut Forth peeping; nor unwelcome is the sight.
It seems to say: Though solitude be sweet, And sweet are all the images that float 320 Like summer-clouds before the eye, and charm The pensive wanderer's way, 'tis sweeter yet To think that in this world a brother lives.
And lovelier smiles the scene, that, 'mid the wilds Of rocks and mountains, the bemused thought Remembers of humanity, and calls The wildly-roving fancy back to life.
Here, then, I leave my harp, which I have touched With careless hand, and here I bid farewell To Fancy's fading pictures, and farewell 330 The ideal spirit that abides unseen 'Mid rocks, and woods, and solitudes.

I hail Rather the steps of Culture, that ascend The precipice's side.

She bids the wild Bloom, and adorns with beauty not its own The ridged mountain's tract; she speaks, and lo! The yellow harvest nods upon the slope; And through the dark and matted moss upshoots The bursting clover, smiling to the sun.
These are thy offspring, Culture! the green herb 340 Is thine, that decks with rich luxuriance The pasture's lawny range; the yellow corn, That waves upon the upland ridge, is thine; Thine too the elegant abode, that smiles Amidst the rocky scene, and wakes the thought, The tender thought, of all life's charities.
And senseless were my heart, could I look back Upon the varied way my feet have trod, Without a silent prayer that health and joy, And love and happiness, may long abide 350 In the romantic vale where Ellen winds.
[66] Coombe-Ellen (in Welsh, Cwm Elan) is situated among the most romantic mountains of Radnorshire, about five miles from Rhayd'r.