To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
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.