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54

E copses wild, where April bids arise The vernal grasses, and the early flowers; My soul depress'd—from human converse flies To the lone shelter of your pathless bowers.

Lo!—where the Woodman, with his toil oppress'd,   His careless head on bark and moss reclined, Lull'd by the song of birds, the murmuring wind, Has sunk to calm tho' momentary rest.

Ah! would 'twere mine in Spring's green lap to find Such transient respite from the ills I bear! Would I could taste, like this unthinking hind, A sweet forgetfulness of human care, Till the last sleep these weary eyes shall close, And Death receive me to his long repose.