Soft as the image of Arcadian bliss,
When earth itself was young as thou art now,
Ere in the east was mosque or high serai,
But all was wild-wood, where the deer might stray,
Or the gazelle bound from the mountain’s brow,
Unharmed by man, who led his flocks along,
Joying in freedom, and the free bird’s song.
Nymph of thy source, and bearer of the urn
From which these crystal waters winding turn
Into their varying track of loveliness—