The rustling leaves still murmur'd there;
The rambling woodbine flower
Its twilight breath, exhal'd to cheer
The outcast's desert bower!
To him the forest's pathless depths
Their mossiest caves reveal'd;
To him, fair Nature's hand bequeath'd
Her fruits of flood and field;—
The flower,—the root,—the beast,—the bird,—
All living things, design'd