Ships dim-discovered dropping from the clouds. - James Thomson

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace,
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve.
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.

Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears
Her snaky crest.

Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on.