Were gross and sensual: not the glorious sun,
Rising above his hills, and lighting up
His woods and pastures with a joyous beam,
To him was grandeur; not the reposing sound
Of tinkling flocks cropping the tender shoots,
To him was music; not the blossomy breeze
That slumbers in the honey-dropping bean-flower,
To him was fragrance: he went plodding on
His long-accustomed path; and when his cares
Of daily duties were o’erpass’d, he ate,