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Lo! through the dusky silence of the groves, Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats, With languid murmur creeps the placid stream And works its secret way.

Awhile meand'ring round its native fields It rolls the playful wave and winds its flight: Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed Embosoms in the Deep!

Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life Smooth its meek stream by sordid wealth unclogg'd, Alike unconscious of forensic storms, And Glory's blood-stain'd palm!

And when dark Age shall close Life's little day, Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils, E'en thus may slumbrous Death my decent limbs Compose with icy hand!

1792.