Thomas Gray, 1759 (1716-1771)
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap [i.e. Albion’s] was Nature’s darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: The dauntless child
Stretch’d forth his little arms, and smil’d.
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
The Progress of Poesy. A Pindaric Ode, 1759, iii. 1.