In the next line it 'whispers through the trees:'
If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,'
The reader's threaten'd—not in vain—with 'sleep.'
Then at the last and only couplet, fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, to know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line