Bathyllus, let us seek yon bower,
A balmy breeze the branches stirs;
We there may spend a tranquil hour,
And list to feathered choristers.

A crystal stream flows gently by,
Rolling persuasion through the grove;
And in a soft and languorous sigh
Whispers of dreamful rest and love.

All things combine to melt the heart,
And loose the shackles of dark care;
To sorrow bid and pain depart—
Who would not willingly rest there?