|
How many bards gild the lapses of time! | a | ||||
|
A few of them have ever been the food | b | ||||
|
Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood | b | ||||
|
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: | a | ||||
| 5 |
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, | a | |||
|
These will in throngs before my mind intrude: | b | ||||
|
But no confusion, no disturbance rude | b | ||||
|
Do they occasion; ’tis a pleasing chime. | a | ||||
|
So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store; | c | ||||
| 10 |
The songs of birds—the whisp’ring of the leaves— | d | |||
|
The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves | d | ||||
|
With solemn sound,—and thousand others more, | c | ||||
|
That distance of recognizance bereaves, | d | ||||
|
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. | c | ||||
|
|||||
