And in sweet madness robbed it of itself;

But such a sacred and home-felt delight,

Such sober certainty of waking bliss,

I never heard till now. I'll speak to her,

And she shall be my queen.—Hail, foreign wonder! 265

Whom, certain, these rough shades did never breed,

Unless the goddess that in rural shrine

Dwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest song

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 270