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Nature, thou ever budding one,Thou formest each for life's enjoyments,And, like a mother, all thy children dear,Blessest with that sweet heritage,--a homeThe swallow builds the cornice round,Unconscious of the beautiesShe plasters up.The caterpillar spins around the bough,To make her brood a winter house;And thou dost patch, between antiquity'sMost glorious relics,For thy mean use,Oh man, a humble cot,--Enjoyest e'en mid tombs!--Farewell, thou happy woman!

Here doth he watch their silent dances' mysterious measure.All that is glorious in Heaven, and all that the earth in her beauty