’Neath yon wide oak the deep’ning shadows dwell, 475
And darkly glance upon the “brocket well,”
That from the twisted roots its stream distils,
Nursed in the bosom of the shelt’ring hills;
Whilst on that brow the beeches’ lofty height,
Waves in the clearness of the azure night; 480
And in wild murmurs sigh the fresh’ning gales,
Through the deep arches of their leafy aisles.
Come to the poet’s study! no proud dome
Rich in the polish’d lore of Greece and Rome,