Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along,
Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome,
Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng;-

In Virtue's cause they take a noble aim;
'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end.

There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears
(Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh),
Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,
More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend,
Shook by some breeze, into the lake below,
Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend,
Till all around the joyous circles flow.

Bless'd be the liberal mind, th' undaunted zeal,
That bade loud Folly from the Stage retire;
That teach us how to think, and how to feel,
And once again our godlike Bard admire!

Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;
Again he pours the phrenzy of his song;
With EV'RY FEATHER in his eagle wing,
Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore,
Erin! thy beauteous vales and classic ground;
And ev'ry ripple of thy winding Nore
To him shall sweetly as his Avon's sound.