Whips the pulse to a galloping beat—
Ties up his judgment neck and feet,
And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?
Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,
Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;
They look not by art, and they love not by rule,
For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.
Oh! give me the love that endures no control
But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,
As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,