Ye vouchers of my life's o'erburdened cause,
How often Death you've heard me supplicate.
(Ode 8.)
Whereso my foot may pass,
A balmy rapture wakes
When I think, here that darling light hath played.
If flower I cull or grass,
I ponder that it takes
Root in that soil, where wontedly she strayed
Betwixt the stream and glade,