Still, as in pride of youth, the wanton Spring
Expanded to the Sun her showery wing,
And cliffs, illustrious in their golden bloom,
Rose o’er the glades of light-besprinkled gloom.
Nor absent ye when Summer’s fervid Hours
Dropt more luxuriant curtains on the Bowers,
And the vast Oak’s writh’d arms of dusky green
Shadow’d the dappled Tenants of the Scene,
With rival Elm, whose mossy trunk appears
Out-numbering far the lonely Eagle’s years.