Normale Version: Blest in yon shepherd, on the turf reclined
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Blest in yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,
Who on the varied clouds which float above
Lies idly gazing – while his vacant mind
Pours out some tale antique of rural love!

Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move
The indignant spirit, when with selfish pride,
Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied,
Unkindly shun the imploring eye of woe!

The ills they ought to soothe, with taunts deride,
And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow.
Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt,
Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,

Through whom each shaft with cruel force is felt,
Empoisoned by deceit – or barbed with scorn.