I hail thee!—not mine own—but still dear clime! 25
Fair spread thy vales! and bright thy waters shine!
Thy flowers,—thy glens, and health-restoring breeze
Fraught with the song of birds, the hum of bees,
The low of kine, and voices clear and sweet,
That link us to the world in our retreat,— 30
These, and the grateful spell—that magic zone—
Of social pleasures o’er thy beauties thrown—
Endear thy shades, and give thy forest bowers
The tranquil charm of gay and guiltless hours.