There Is A Wilder'D Spot Delights Me Well, Pent In A Corner Of My Native Vale, Where Tiny Blossoms With A Purple Bell Shiver Their Beauties To The Autumn-Gale. 'Tis One Of Those Mean Arbours That Prevail With Manhood'S Weakness, Still To Seek And Love For What Is Past:--Destruction'S Axe Did Fail To Cut It Down With Its Companion Grove. Though But A Trifling Thorn, Oft Shelt'Ring Warm A Brood Of Summer Birds, By Nature Led To Seek For Covert In A Hasty Storm; I Often Think It Lifts Its Lonely Cares, In Piteous Bloom Where All The Rest Are Fled, Like A Poor Warrior The Rude Battle Spares.