And, [when the sun begins] to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that [Sylvan] loves,
Of pine, or [monumental oak], 135
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There, in close covert, by some brook,