Descend to quaff refreshment from their flow;
For thick, entangling weeds,
In the loose soil seem matted to ensnare
The foot of him who ventureth below.
In the rich bottom of the dale, a grove
Of sylvan giants woos the roving eye;
The topmost limbs wave not their leaves above
The shrubby brow of the declivity.
Sometimes in musing indolence I stand,
And drink in rapture from the peaceful scene,