And on yon brown hill’s bosky side,
Where flames the sumach’s crimson pride,
The steeps and tangled thickets glow
With rude persimmons golden show;
And down the dell, where daylight’s beams
Make golden pathways by the streams,
Where whispering winds are never mute,
The hawthorn hangs her ebon fruit.
Come wander with me! near the spring
The partridge whirs on mottled wing,