As One Who, Long By Wasting Sickness Worn, Weary Has Watched The Lingering Night, And Heard Unmoved The Carol Of The Matin Bird Salute His Lonely Porch; Now First At Morn Goes Forth, Leaving His Melancholy Bed; He The Green Slope And Level Meadow Views, Delightful Bathed With Slow-Ascending Dews; Or Marks The Clouds, That O'Er The Mountain'S Head In Varying Forms Fantastic Wander White; Or Turns His Ear To Every Random Song, Heard The Green River'S Winding Marge Along, The Whilst Each Sense Is Steeped In Still Delight. So O'Er My Breast Young Summer'S Breath I Feel, Sweet Hope! Thy Fragrance Pure And Healing Incense Steal!