Who thought the round, revolving world,
Mountains and plains and streams and skies,
Lay in the compass of his eyes.
The symphonies of the leafy woods,
The melodies of the murmuring brooks,
Mingling—like light, or songs of spheres —
Contented his untutored ears.
Confined between gigantic hills,
The little hamlet, where he dwell,
Never imagined land more blest