These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here to return, and die at home at last. Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. The sad historian of the pensive plain. The rev'rend champion stood.