Note 15 — CABINET OF BIOGRAPHY. (continued 2)

"Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing, Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring; And when the heats of summer scorch the grass, More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass, Fair waves! the memory of that day returns, With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns; Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure, My peace grows troubled and my joys obscure. * * * * This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind, The verdant forests waving with the wind, The odours wafted from the mead, the flowers In which the wild bee sits and sings for hours, These might the moodiest misanthrope employ, Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy."