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 Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd; Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?