Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,
From morn till Evening’s sweeter pastime grew,
With Timbrel, when beneath the Forest Brown,
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew,
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down,
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town.
Then, where of Indian Hills the daybreak takes,
His leave, how might you the flamingo see
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes—
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: