What good were it to dim the pleasure glow That lights thy cheek, fair girl, in scenes like these, By shameful facts and piteous histories? While we enjoy, what matters what we know? What tender love-sick looks on us below Those mountains cast! how courteously the trees Raise up their branching heads in chalices For the thick vine to fill and overflow! This nature is like thee, all-bright, all-mild; If then some self-wise man should say, that here Hate, sin, and d**h held rule for many a year, That of this kindliest earth there's not a rood But has been saturate with brother's blood, Believe him not, believe him not, my child.