The laughing ripple’s curl, the wood-crowned hill,
The deep green shore rising in graceful sweep,
The wide smooth waters in their sun-bright sleep,
Scorning the change wrought by each passing year,
In loveliness unfading, still are here.
Lovely thou art, sweet bay!—when first the beam
Of morning glances on the silvery stream
Which seeks thy bosom—when the south winds break
Thy water’s glassy slumber, and awake
A thousand sparkling eddies—when the sky