What though while the wonders of nature exploring
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast’s friend

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping
I see you are treading the verge of the sea
And now! ah, I see it--you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending
Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given

It had not created a warmer emotion
Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw
For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds