In rural beauty blest; and at her feet,
Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomfret vale,
Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood’s hour.
The iron-horse now darts with lightning speed
Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew,
And at each turn the lovely river makes,
At the mere plashing of the wild swan’s wing,
A babbling village rises from the flood;
And there the halls of labor lift their domes
At Mammon’s call, and countless spindles twirl