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286 Soft hour of peace; without a trace Of Man, where rise these heights uphurl’d, I sit abandoned of the world. How Nature's quietude august Delights the feeling mind, That heeds her voice, and learns to trust Its joys with her to find! Sweet silence! here I rest reclined, With but the river's murmurings heard, Or leaves by gentle breezes stirr'd. Now its repose on languid wings, Its freshness Night supplies; To shaded heaven which faithful clings, And blaze of daylight flies: Unseen by that, mysterious lies On mount and plain, to please though sad, Still beauteous ev'n in horrors clad. How is the ecstatic soul impressed With melancholy thought! The lovely picture here possess'd Sublime with sadness fraught! How more its music to be sought, And peace, than all that may entrance The echoes of the noisy dance.