And hold their savins to the upper storm,
While far below the skiff securely plies.
Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men
Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil,
Spread o’er the plain or scatter through the glen
Bœotian plenty on a Spartan soil.
Then, where the reign of cultivation ends,
Again the charming wilderness begins;
From steep to steep one solemn wood extends,
Till some new hamlet’s rise the boscage thins.