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

These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

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

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

All that we behold is full of blessings.