There never trod the foot of men,
There flock’d the fowl in wint’ry flight;
There danced the moor’s deceitful light
Above the pool where sedges grow;
And when the morning-sun shone bright,
It shone upon a field of snow.
They hung me on a bow so small,
The rook could build her nest no higher;
They fix’d me on the trembling ball
That crowns the steeple’s quiv’ring spire;