He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.