Sonnet XX. On Reading A Description Of Pope's Gardens At Twickenham.

Ah! might I range each hallow'd bower and glade
Mus'us cultur'd, many a raptur'd sigh
Wou'd that dear, local consciousness supply
Beneath his willow, in the grotto's shade,
Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid.
How sweet to watch, with reverential eye,
Thro' the sparr'd arch, the streams he oft survey'd,
Thine, blue Tham'sis, gently wandering by!
This is the POET's triumph, and it towers
O'er Life's pale ills, his consciousness of powers
That lift his memory from Oblivion's gloom,
Secure a train of these heart-thrilling hours
By his idea deck'd in rapture's bloom,
For Spirits rightly touch'd, thro' ages yet to come.