How many bards gild² the lapses³ of time！

    A few of them have ever been the food

    Of my delighted fancy，-I could brood

    Over their beauties， earthly， or sublime⁴：

    And often， when I sit me down to rhyme，

    These will in throngs⁵ before my mind intrude⁶：

    But no confusion， no disturbance⁷ rude

    Do they occasion； 'tis a pleasing chime.

    So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store；

    The songs of birds-the whispering of the leaves-

    The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves

    With solemn sound，-and thousand others more，

    That distance of recognisance bereaves⁸，

    Make pleasing music， and not wild uproar⁹.