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How sickly grow, How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Felt
Round
Sickly
Ever
Rounds
Heap
Feel
Plant
Gigantic
Feels
Mountain
Vigor
Never
Sun
Plants
Vales
Grow
Pale
Circled
Grows
Mountains
Genial
Hope
Ill
Fated

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To please the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is studied for whatever moves The mind with calm delight, promotes the just And natural movements of th'harmonious frame.
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Your friends avoid you, brutishly transform'd They hardly know you, or if one remains To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.
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