When mounts the lark on rapid wing,
How sweet to sit and hear him sing!
No carols like the feathered choir,
Such happy, grateful thoughts inspire.
Here let the spirit, sore distress'd,
Its vanities and wishes close:
The weary world is not the rest
Where wounded hearts should seek repose.
But, hark! the lark his merry strain,
To heav'n high soaring, sings again.