Like the young tendrils of the gadding vine,
Beneath this azure sky and fragrant air.
Let others to more southern shores repair,
And boast their glowing summers; be it mine,
Pleased on thy verdant margin to recline,
Heedless what aspect alien climes may wear;
And mark the white-winged barks that swiftly glide,
Like sportive birds, along thy glassy tide;
Now by a circling wood’s theatric pride,
Now by yon Castle, firmly knit, though grey,