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How many
bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have
ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy, -I could
brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in
throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no
disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing
chime.
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds -the whispering of the leaves -
The voice of waters -the great bell that heaves
With
solemn sound, -and thousand others more,
That
distance of recognizance bereaves,
Makes pleasing
music, and not wild uproar.
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