'Change me, some God, into that Breathing Rose !"
What Aspect bore the Man who Roved or Fled
The Struggling Rill insensibly is Grown
Not so that Pair whose Youthful Spirits Dance
No Fiction was it of the Antique Age
On, Loitering Muse-the Swift Stream Chides us on
Hail to the Fields-with Dwellings Sprinkled o'er
O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
From this Deep Chasm-where Quivering Sunbeams Play
Such Fruitless Questions may not long Beguile
Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.