To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, The budding twigs spread out their fan And I must think, do all I can, If this belief from Heaven be sent, What man has made of man? THE LOST SHEPHERD. THE snows arise, and foul and fierce All Winter drives along the darken'd air. In his own loose-revolving fields the swain Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land, unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, |