With rapid course, a river flows
On to the sea—where meets the view
Thro’ opening hills its bosom blue,
Save when a white-sail flies the gale before,
Or a wave breaks upon the rocky shore.
And as thou dart’st thy looks around,
O’er the lively landscape smiling,
More blythe the ploughman’s carols sound,
His tedious furrow’d way beguiling——
More sweet the birds their songs renew,—