While thy fountains flow murmuring by;
I have danc’d in the Dance on the green,
I have wept with the woe-begun age.
Thy blessings how many and rare!
Far distant the mildue of health,
Where guilt vainly decorates care,
And wickedness broods over wealth.
The dress of the body and mind,
For ages exactly the same:
No travel the manners refin’d,