The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Ah, tell them they are men!

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.