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.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.