"Ye scenes, my melancholy soul that fill! Where Nature’s voice no crowds tumultuous drown, And but through brakes of trees, the lawns that crown, The paths of men are seen; and farther still, Scarce peeps the city-spire o’er many a hill; Your green retreats, lone walks, and shadows brown, While sheep feed round beneath the branches’ frown, Shall calm my mind and holy thoughts instil.— What though with passion oft my trembling frame Each real and each fancied wrong inflame, Wandering alone I here my thoughts reclaim: Resentment sinks, Disgust within me dies; And Charity and meek Forgiveness rise, And melt my soul, and overflow my eyes."