Ah! how unlike is Umbrio's gloomy scene,
Estrang'd from all the cheerful ways of men!
There superstition works her baneful pow'r,
And darkens all the melancholy hour.
Unnumber'd fears corrode and haunt his breast,
With all that whim or ign'rance can suggest.
In vain for him kind nature pours her sweets;
The visionary saint no joy admits,
But seeks with pious spleen fantastick woes,
And for heav'n's sake heav'n's offer'd good foregoes.