More than the torrid noon? How sickly grow,
How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales
That, circled round with the gigantic heap 330
Of mountains, never felt, nor never hope
To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!
While on the neighbouring hill the rose inflames
The verdant spring; in virgin beauty blows
The tender lily, languishingly sweet; 335
O’er every hedge the wanton woodbine roves,
And autumn ripens in the summer’s ray.