In silent search, or through the forest, rank
With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Bursts his blind way, or climbs the mountain-rock,
Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow).
With such a liberal hand has Nature flung
Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innumerous mixed them with the nursing mould,
The moistening current and prolific rain.
But who their virtues can declare? Who pierce,
With vision pure, into those secret stores