Not envying Latian shades—if yet they throw
A grateful coolness round that crystal spring,
Blandusia prattling as when long ago
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing;
Careless of flowers that in perennial blow
Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling;
Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering
Through ice-built arches radiant as Heaven’s bow;
I seek the birth-place of a native stream.
All hail! ye mountains! hail thou morning light!