Bright threads of silver net the ground;
And down, the entangled brakes among,
The white rill sparkling winds along:
Then, as the pausing zephyrs breathe,
The billowy mist recedes beneath;
Slow, as it rolls away, unfold
The vale’s fresh glories green and gold;
Dove[[1]] laughs, and shakes his tresses bright,
And trails afar a line of light.
Now glows the illumin’d landscape round!