Amid whose windless calm the forests stand
As still as clustered obelisks. A bland
Delight is shed o’er all who enter here;
And by a lonely path their way they steer
Through dreamy hollows, under forests grand
Of larch and fir, round many a placid mere,
O’er silver streams and level barrens drear.
At length they come unto a mossy gate,
And find within a city desolate;
Its streets knee-deep with yellow leaves are strown,