Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While stray’d my eyes o’er Towy’s flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his checker’d sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.