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117

13.

Written in very early Youth.

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.The Kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass;The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to stealO'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.Now, in this blank of things, a harmonyHome-felt, and home-created seems to healThat grief for which the senses still supplyFresh food; for only then, when memoryIs hush'd, am I at rest. My Friends, restrainThose busy cares that would allay my pain:Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feelThe officious touch that makes me droop again.
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