Here, would I run, a visionary boy, When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form Sternly careering on the eddying storm; And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, His voice terrific in the thunders roll. With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare The vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air; And, as the warring winds around reviled, With awful pleasure big,—I heard and smiled. Beloved remembrance!—Memory which endears This silent spot to my advancing years, Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. While happiness evades the busy crowd, In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye, And listen to the stream that murmurs by, The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, The mellow music of the listening night. Congenial calms more welcome to my breast Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, That ye may bless my unambitious days, Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, May trace with me the lowly vale of life, And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, A livelier light upon my vision flows. No more above the embracing branches meet, No more the river gurgles at my feet, But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. Dim is my upland path,—across the green Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between The chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds, Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads. And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives to him alone his bliss to know, Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms? And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death? Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings Know what calm joy from purer sources springs; Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, No more his soul would pant for joys impure, The deadly chalice would no more allure, But the sweet potion he was wont to sip Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.

Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms, Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms! Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 

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