As fails the light of eve,
His pensive, artless song;
Yea, those who mark out honour, ease, wealth, fame,
As man's sole joys, shall find no joy in him;
Yet of far nobler kind
His silent pleasures prove.
For not unmarked by him the ways of men;
Nor yet to him the ample page unknown,
Where, traced by Nature's hand,
Is many a pleasing line.