The tuneful birds like hush'd in sleep,
With all that crop the verdant food,
With all that skim the crystal flood,
Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.
No rushing winds disturb the tufted bow'rs;
No wakeful sound the moonlight valley knows,
Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,
And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.
O let not me thus watch alone!
O hear my solitary moan!
Descend, propitious, on my eyes;
Not from the couch that bears a crown,
Not from the statesman's thorny down,
Or where the miser and his treasure lies:
Bring not the shapes that break the murd'rer's rest;
Nor those the hireling soldier burns to see,
Nor those that haunt the tyrant's gloomy breast:
Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!
Nor
