the hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste,

the arches striding o'er the new-born stream,

the village glittering in the noontide beam—

poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;

the sweeping theatre of hanging woods,

th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—

here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,

and look through nature with creative fire;

here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,

misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild;

and disappointment, in these lonely bounds,

find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:

here heart-struck grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,

and injur'd worth forget and pardon man.