THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,   But were an apt confessional for one   Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase   That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes   Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,   If from a golden perch of aspen spray   (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast   That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!