Those glorious seraphs also pray,
That from this planet crime may die,
From man and earth sin pass away.
The shades of these hills of central air,
The gales that spring ’mid their lake,
Spread over our earthly valleys fair,
From our souls the weariness take;
And hope reviving emits its glad beam,
Which brightens our hearts, as sun does the stream.
Where we sit the ground is heaped into all sorts of forms, and covered with ferns and heather,—from the latter rushes a large covey of whirring partridges, and swoops into the valley.