THE Massy Ways, Carried Across These Heights

The massy Ways, carried across these heights By Roman perseverance, are destroyed, Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. How venture then to hope that Time will spare This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the steps Of that same Bard, repeated to and fro At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies Through the vicissitudes of many a year Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line. No longer, scattering to the heedless winds The vocal raptures of fresh poesy, Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more In earnest converse with beloved Friends, Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, As from the beds and borders of a garden Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may spring Out of a farewell yearning, favoured more Than kindred wishes mated suitably With vain regrets, the Exile would consign This Walk, his loved possession, to the care Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.