A never-failing stream, hath drench’d thy head?
How oft the summer’s cloud, in copious showers,
Or gentle drops, its genial influence shed?
How oft, since then, the hovering mist of morn,
Hath caus’d thy locks with glittering gems to glow?
How oft, hath eve her dewy treasure borne
To fall responsive to the breeze below?
The matted thistles, bending to the gale,
Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay;
Amidst the windings of that lonely vale,