And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature’s voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,