'Twould seem a sort of mercy to my mind....
My ode, I shall i' the field
Stand firm; to perish flinching were a shame,
In fact, myself I blame
For such laments; my portion is so sweet.
Tears, sighs, and death I greet.
O reader that of death the servant art,
Earth can no weal, to match my woes, impart.
His poems are full of scenes and comparisons from Nature; for the sympathy for her which goes with this modern and sentimental tone is a deep one:
In that sweet season of my age's prime