Classic Poem

How oft, sweet Rill, thy warbling notes restore
Peace and contentment to my ruffled mind!
With fruitless passion though my bosom pin'd,
Calm could I sit on thy sequester'd shore.
Still gently murm'ring roll thy crystal store;
And still the world's poor follies left behind,
To Contemplation's purer joys resign'd,
Let me by thee my soaring soul explore.
In these cool haunts, where sing the feather'd quires,
And verdant arches tinge the sober light:
While the tir'd sun, array'd in milder fires,
Moves to the western hills his downward flight,
Ev'n now I rove, and muse on fond desires,
And pleasing images of past delight.