The wanton deer bound lightly o’er the lawn,
And every copse resounds with notes of love.
The village-clocks proclaim the passing hour;
The tall spires glitter to the early sun;
The ploughman, whistling, quits his low-roofed bow’r,
And now his peaceful labour is begun.
Yet not this ocean, cheered with many a sail,
Nor all these rural sounds, and pastures fair,
To solace worn disease could aught avail,
Or from his bosom chase the clouds of care.