When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
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.
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.