Sonnet XX

ON READING A DESCRIPTION

OF POPE's GARDENS AT TWICKENHAM.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade

Musæus cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh

Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply

Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,

Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.

How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,

Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,

Thine, blue Thamésis, gently wandering by!

This is the Poet's triumph, and it towers

O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers

That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,

Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours

By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,

For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.