Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods,—rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all,

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread