Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/226

98 That solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground; Or in a soul exalted high, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All nature in its forms below; The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd The branches whisper as they wav'd: It seem'd, as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of the Grace. When thus she spoke—"Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still, Know God—and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat,