Verdant with thymy grass, tempted the sheep
To scramble up their height, while he, reclin’d
Upon the pillowing moss, lay listlessly
Through the long summer’s day. Not such as he,
In plains of Thessaly, as poets feign,
Went piping forth at the first gleam of morn,
And in their bowering thickets dreamt of joy,
And innocence, and love. Let the true lay
Speak thus of the poor hind:—His indolent gaze
Reck’d not of natural beauties; his delights