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Poem	Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs, Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth; Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth, In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours; Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain flow'rs, Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth, Ere the fierce Lord of Lustre rushes forth, And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours! Oft has your clanking cymbal's madd'ning strain, Loud ringing through the torch-illumin'd grove, Lur'd my lov'd Phaon from the youthful train, Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove; Then how can she his vagrant heart detain, Whose Lyre throbs only to the touch of Love!
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