Address to Calder Banks

YE hoary rocks, ye woody cliffs that rise
Unwieldy, jutting o'er the brawling brook;
Ye lowering steeps, where hid the adder lies,
Where sleeps the owl and screams the sable rook.

Ye reverend trunks, that spread your leafy arms
To shield the gloom that dark'ning swells below;
Ye nameless flowers, ye busy-winged swarms;
Ye birds that warble and ye streams that flow.

Say, ye blest scenes of solitude and peace,
Strayed e'er a bard along this hermit shore?
Did e'er his pencil your perfections trace?
Or did his Muse to sing your beauties soar?

Hast oft at early morn and silent eve,
Responsive echo stole athwart the trees;
While easy laid beside the glitt'ring wave,
The shepherd sang, his listening fair to please?

Alas! methinks the weeping rocks around,
And the lone stream that murmurs far below,
And trees and caves, with hollow, solemn sound,
Breathe out one mournful, melancholy—No.