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