( 7 )
Like thee, in lowly, sylvan scenes,
And river-banks and fruitful greens
Delights my vagrant song;
Nor strives by soaring high in air,
Tho' swans and eagles triumph there,
To draw the giddy throng.
Nor where the raven, where the owl
By night their hateful orgies howl,
Will she her cares imploy;
But flies from ruins and from graves,
From ghostly cells and monkish caves
To day-light and to joy.
Nor will she tempt the barren waste;
Nor deigns th' ungrateful stores to taste
Of any noxious thing;
But leaves with scorn to others' use
The bitter hemlock's baneful juice,
The nettle's sordid sting.
From
