The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.