'TIS sweet to sit beneath these walnut-trees, And pore upon the sun in splendour sinking, And think upon the wond'rous mysteries Of this so lovely world, until, with thinking, Thought is bewildered, and the spirit, shrinking Into itself no outward object sees, Still, from its inward fount, new visions drinking, Till the sense swims in dreamy reveries. Awaking from this trance, with gentle start, 'Tis sweeter still to feel the o'erflowing heart Shoot its glad gushes to the thrilling cheek; To feel as if the yearning soul would dart Upwards to God, and by its flutters speak Homage for which all language is too weak. |