the hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste,
the arches striding o'er the new-born stream,
the village glittering in the noontide beam—
poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;
the sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
and look through nature with creative fire;
here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild;
and disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:
here heart-struck grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
and injur'd worth forget and pardon man.