Their rich variety of vale and hill— 155
Thy smile is brightest—purest—loveliest still!
Away—thy banks I may not linger near;
Sweet stream! whose murmurs yet are on my ear;—
The scene around me, rich in autumn’s glow,
Untrack’d by path, unbroken by the plough, 160
Where all unseen the pensive foot may roam,
Is best befitting a recluse’s home.
It is a place of trees; their sweeping boughs
Clash in the autumn’s gusts, their crowned brows