How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or’ sublime :
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme.
These will in throngs before my mind intrude :
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion ; ‘t is a pleasing chime.
So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store ;
The songs of birds — the whisp’ring of the leaves —
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound, — and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.