INSCRIPTION VII.

Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank

Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,

That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,

Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound

Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear

It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold

Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed

Yon glossy insect, on the sand below

How the swift shadow flies. The stream is pure

In solitude, and many a healthful herb

Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:

But passing on amid the haunts of man,

It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence

A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?

Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot

Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.