And our eyes, Pleasant Pond, in its beauty will greet;
There glitters the outlet—still, upward, we pass,
And there, spreads its smooth polish’d bosom of glass.
On the East, lifts a hill, low and rounded, its crown
With a slope, like a robe, on each side falling down,
All verdant with meadow, and bristling with grain,
From its top, to the edge of the bright liquid plain,
Thence the banks, sweeping round to the North and the West,
With clearing and field interspersed on their breast,
Are lost in the black frowning gloom of the wood