In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw
I could some invention draw;
And raise Pleasure to her height
Thro' the meanest object's sight,
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rusteling,
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can,
To some other wiser man.
The strange music of the waves,
Beating in their hollow caves,
This black den which weeds emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give sight
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect,
Walled about with disrespect.
From all these in this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.