Is mourning the loss of its beautiful gem.
Our party has reach’d now the foot of the hill,
And we rest for a space on the trunk by the rill;
One twists from the hopple a chalice of green,
And stoops, for the lymph, the dense thicket between;
One whirls a thick branch, as a fine twanging sound
On the ear tells the hungry musketoe is round,
Whilst Wright, never loath, takes immediate seat,
Complaining in bass of the dust and the heat.
We leave the green spot, our swift journey resume—