But I am glad should learn,

How pure a fire has found me,

The love with which I burn.

For none attends with pleasure

To what I would reveal;

They slight me out of measure,

And laugh at all I feel.

The rocks receive less proudly

The story of my flame;

When I approach, they loudly

Reverberate his name.

I speak to them of sadness,

And comforts at a stand;

They bid me look for gladness,

And better days at hand.

Far from all habitation,

I heard a happy sound;

Big with the consolation,

That I have often found.

I said, "My lot is sorrow,

My grief has no alloy;"

The rocks replied -- "Tomorrow,

Tomorrow brings thee joy."

These sweet and sacred tidings,

What bliss it is to hear!

For, spite of all my chidings,

My weakness and my fear,

No sooner I receive them,

Than I forget my pain,

And, happy to believe them,

I love as much again.

I fly to scenes romantic,

Where never men resort;

For in an age so frantic

Impiety is sport.

For riot and confusion

They barter things above;

Condemning, as delusion,

The joy of perfect love.

In this sequestered corner,

None hears what I express;

Delivered from the scorner,

What peace do I possess!

Beneath the boughs reclining,

Or roving o'er the wild,

I live as undesigning

And harmless as a child.

No troubles here surprise me,

I innocently play,

While Providence supplies me,

And guards me all the day:

My dear and kind defender

Preserves me safely here,

From men of pomp and splendour,

Who fill a child with fear.