Why are these tamer landscapes fraught
With charms whose meek appeal
To sensibility and thought
The heart is glad to feel?

Cowper, thy muse's magic skill
Has made them sacred ground;
Thy gentle memory haunts them still,
And casts a spell around.

The hoary oak, the peasant's nest,
The rustic bridge, the grove,
The turf thy feet have often prest,
The temple and alcove;

The shrubbery, moss-house, simple urn,
The elms, the lodge, the hall,—
Each is thy witness in its turn,
Thy verse the charm of all.

Thy verse, no less to nature true
Than to religion dear,
O'er every object sheds a hue
That long must linger here.

Amid these scenes the hours were spent
Of which we reap the fruit;
And each is now thy monument,
Since that sweet lyre is mute.

“Here, like the nightingale's, were pour'd
Thy solitary lays,”
Which sought the glory of the Lord,
“Nor ask'd for human praise.”