Thanks be to Nature, some green spots remain 

 Free from the tread and stain of that gross world 

 Whose god is commerce, and religion gain — 

 Its altars furnaces, whose smoke is curled 

 Around the very clouds ! — Be praise agen 

 To Nature and her God ! while some are whirled 

 The dizzy round of joy, and some turn churled 

 Or fever'd from life's game, — to halm the pain 

 Of a stung heart — still the self -troubled brain — 

 Kefine the mind — silence, if not appease, 

 Pale recollections, memory's agonies, 

 And throw the load of anxious cares behind, 

 There still are flowery meadows, pathless woods, 

 Groves, hills and vales, forests and solitudes. 



Webbe. 



