A
MORAL
THOUGHT
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
THRO'
groves
sequester'd
,
dark
and
still
,
Low
vales
,
and
mossy
cells
among
,
In
silent
paths
the
careless
rill
,
Which
languid
murmurs
,
steals
along
:
Awhile
it
plays
with
circling
sweep
,
And
lingering
leaves
its
native
plains
,
Then
pours
impetuous
down
the
steep
,
And
mingles
with
the
boundless
main
.
O
let
my
years
thus
devious
glide
,
Through
silent
scenes
obscurely
calm
,
Nor
wealth
nor
strife
pollute
the
tide
,
Nor
honour's
sanguinary
palm
.
When
labour
tires
,
and
pleasure
palls
,
Still
let
the
stream
untroubled
be
,
As
down
the
steep
of
age
it
falls
,
And
mingles
with
eternity
.