George Gordon Byron

                LX

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer’s eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty!
What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
The humblest of thy pilgrim passing by
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.

                LXI

Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glories name
Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore:
And now I view thee – ‘tis alas! with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!

                LXII

Happier in this than mightiest Bards have been,
Whose Fate to distant homes confines their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
Whish others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his Grot,
And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave,
Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the Cave,
And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave.