Yours be the vulgar dissonance, while I
Cross the low stream, and stretch the ardent eye
O'er Nature's wilds; 'tis peace, 'tis joy serene,
The thought as pure as calm the vernal scene.
Ah, lovely meads! my bosom lighter grows,
Shakes off her huge oppressive weight of woes,
And swells in guiltless rapture; ever hail,
The tufted grove, and the low-winding vale!