THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
   But were an apt confessional for one 
   Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase 
   That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
   Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, 
   If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
   (October's workmanship to rival May) 
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
   That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!