It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,
Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,
Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofs
Are clad with rustic thatch, and round their doors
In summer time, the climbing plants creep up,
And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,
For use and beauty, is assigned to each,
Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,
Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,
It seems a nook from paradise. But now