Within a bower of sycamores am laid;
And winds as soft and sweet as ever bore
The fragrance of wild-flowers through sun and shade
Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.
Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell’s pen hath pictured: he
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar: