With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn),
My languid head shall wreathe thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph Solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh;
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,