9

Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale,

Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale—

vale—

For me your tributary stores combine;

Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine!

As some lone miser, visiting his store,

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er—

o’er—

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still—

still—

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

Pleas’d with each good that Heaven to man supplies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

To see the hoard of human bliss so small;

And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find

Some spot to real happiness consign’d,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

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