Have fill’d thy banks with ecstacy;
If e’er array’d in cheerful green
Our train hath deck’d thy wintry scene;
Ere yet thy wood-wild walks I leave,
My tributary verse receive:
With thy own wreath my brows adorn,
And to thy praises tune my horn!
What green-rob’d Nymph, all loose her hair,
With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare,
Steps lightly down the turfy glades,