'Tis beauty all, and grateful song around,
Joyn'd to the low of kine, and numerous bleat
Of flocks thick-nibbling thro' the clover'd vale.
And shall the hymn be marr'd by thankless man,
Most-favour'd; who with voice articulate
Should lead the chorus of this lower world?
Shall ho, so soon forgetful of the hand
That hush'd the thunder, and expands the sky,
After the tempest puff his idle vows,
And a new dance of vanity begin,
Scarce e'er the pant forsake the feeble heart?