No fields of Death, no hero's deeds I sing,
No splendid conquest, no victorious King
...
A mighty sorrow gathers while the eye
Is by the sunset's waning glories fed,
...
Lives there a man whose harden'd soul
Ne'er felt soft Pity's kind control;
Ne'er learn'd for others' joys to glow,
...
There is a holy magic in that tone,
Can wake from memory's selectest cell
...
Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days
Seem'd mountain-like and distant, fain once more
...
Hark! from the distant town the long acclaim
On the charm'd silence of the evening breaks
With startling interruption;-yet it wakes
...
Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale,
But as a scene of struggle which denies
...
There is no father, who, with swimming eyes,
Has seen thee prese ...
...
How simple in their grandeur are the forms
That constitute this picture! Nature grants
Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire-
...
What Muse, my soul, awakes thy trembling lyre,
And fills my ardent breast with conscious fir ...
...