Back through the distant tracks of thought,
The flowers I gather’d by the way
Upon your fabled banks I lay;
Where primrose groups were yearly seen
Peeping beneath their curtain green,
With aromatic mint beside,
And violets in purple pride.
In gay festoons, o’er hazles thrown,
Hung many a woodbine’s floral crown;
The brier-rose too, that woos the bee,