My heart has thank'd thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains

Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains

Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went: And when the mightier Throes of mind began, And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man, Their mild and manliest melancholy lent

A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd; Bidding a strange mysterious PLEASURE brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

As the great SPIRIT erst with plastic sweep Mov'd on the darkness of the unform'd deep.