Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been
So link’d in love to your margins green;
That still, though ruin’d, your early shrines
In beauty gleam through the southern vines,
And the ivied chapels of colder skies
On your wild banks arise.
For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth
Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth;
Whether their cavern’d murmur fills,
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills,