How Sweet To Rove, From Summer Sun-Beams Veil'D, In Gloomy Dingles; Or To Trace The Tide Of Wandering Brooks, Their Pebbly Beds That Chide; To Feel The West-Wind Cool Refreshment Yield, That Comes Soft Creeping O'Er The Flowery Field, And Shadow'D Waters; In Whose Bushy Side The Mountain-Bees Their Fragrant Treasure Hide Murmuring; And Sings The Lonely Thrush Conceal'D! - Then, Ceremony, In Thy Gilded Halls, Where Forc'D And Frivolous The Themes Arise, With Bow And Smile Unmeaning, O! How Palls At Thee, And Thine, My Sense! - How Oft It Sighs For Leisure, Wood-Lanes, Dells, And Water-Falls; And Feels Th' Untemper'D Heat Of Sultry Skies!