Now blest for ever be that heaven-sprung art
Which can transport us in its magic power
From all the turmoil of the busy crowd,
From the gay haunts where pleasure is ador'd,
'Mid the hot sick'ning glare of pomp and light;
And fashion worshipp'd by a gaudy throng
Of heartless idlers--from the jarring world
And all its passions, follies, cares, and crimes--
And bids us gaze, even in the city's heart,
On such a scene as this! O fairest spot!
If but the pictured semblance, the dead image
Of thy majestic beauty, hath a power
To wake such deep delight; if that blue lake,
Over whose lifeless breast no breezes play,
Those mimic mountains robed in purple light,
Yon painted verdure that but _seems_ to glow,
Those forms unbreathing, and those motionless woods,
A beauteous mockery all--can ravish thus,
What would it be, could we now gaze indeed
Upon thy _living_ landscape? could we breathe
Thy mountain air, and listen to thy waves,
As they run rippling past our feet, and see
That lake lit up by dancing sunbeams--and
Those light leaves quivering in the summer air;
Or linger some sweet eve just on this spot
Where now we _seem_ to stand, and watch the stars
Flash into splendour, one by one, as night
Steals over yon snow-peaks, and twilight fades
Behind the steeps of Jura! here, O _here_!