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joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, That ye may bless my unambitious days, Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, May trace with me the lowly vale of life, And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, May keep your peaceful vigils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, Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine command To roll in acres of paternal land, Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, Who, still in abject poverty or pain, Can count with pleasure what small joys remain: Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, He would not find one spot of ground his own, Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, These bounding prospects all were made for me: For me yon waving fields their burden bear, For me yon labourer guides the shining share, While happy I in idle ease recline, And mark the glorious visions as they shine. This is the charm, by sages often told, Converting all it touches into gold. Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed, Can rear a garden in the desert waste. How lovely, from this hill's superior height, Spreads the wide view before my straining sight! O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene The silver moon illumes the misty scene: Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, In all the soft varieties of shade.