A man at leisure might admire for hours;
This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip,
That yields to nothing but my Laura’s lip;
And then how fine this herbage! men may say
A heath is barren; nothing is so gay:
Barren or bare to call such charming scene
Argues a mind possess’d by care and spleen.”
Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat,
Dust rose in clouds before the horse’s feet;
For now he pass’d through lanes of burning sand,