Through groves sequester'd, dark, and still,
Low vales, and mossy cells among,
In silent paths, the nameless rill,
With liquid murmurs, steals along:

A while it plays with circling sweep,
And lingering winds its native plain,
Then pours impetuous down the steep,
And mingles with the boundless main.

O! let my years thus devious glide,
Through silent scenes obscurely calm;
Nor Wealth nor Strife pollute the tide,
Nor Honour's sanguinary palm.

When Labour tires, and Pleasure palls,
Still let the stream untroubled lie:
As down the steep of age it falls,
And mingle with eternity.