How many bards gild the lapses of time！

    A few of them have ever been the food

    Of my delighted fancy，-I could brood

    Over their beauties， earthly， or sublime：

    And often， when I sit me down to rhyme，

    These will in throngs before my mind intrude：

    But no confusion， no disturbance rude

    Do they occasion； 'tis a pleasing chime.

    So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store；

    The songs of birds-the whispering of the leaves-

    The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves

    With solemn sound，-and thousand others more，

    That distance of recognisance bereaves，

    Make pleasing music， and not wild uproar.