'How many bards gild the lapses of time'

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

   A few of them have ever been the food

   Of my delighted fancy—I could brood

Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime;

And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

   These will in throngs before my mind intrude:

   But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumbered 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 recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.