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 plwasing chime.

So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store:

The songs of birds--the wisp’ring of that heaves--

The voice of waters--the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound,--and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make plwasing music,and not wild uproar.