All tranquil is the bosom of the grove,
Save where the Zephyr warbles through the trees.
Now the poor shepherd wandering to his home
Surveys the darkening scene with fearful eye,
On every green sees little elfins roam,
And haggard sprites along the moonbeams fly.
While Superstition rules the vulgar soul,
Forbids the energies of man to rise,
Raised far above her low, her mean controul,
Aspiring Genius seeks her native skies.