TO THE POET, JOHN DYER

          BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
          That work a living landscape fair and bright;
          Nor hallowed less with musical delight
          Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
          Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,
          With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled;"
          Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
          For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
          Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
          Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,         10
          A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
          Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
          O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
          Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!