In pride of yóuth, | and félt through náture’s dépth:
He cómes atténded | bý the súltry hóurs,
And éver-fánning bréezes, | ón his wáy;
Whíle, from his árdent lóok, | the túrning Spríng
Avérts her blúshful fáce; | and éarth, and skíes
All smíling, | to his hót domínion léaves.
Hénce let me háste | intó the míd-wood sháde,
Where scárce a sún-beam | wánders through the glóom;
And ón the dárk-green gráss, | besíde the brínk
Of háunted stréam, | that bý the róots of óak