The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling[5] spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sunflower[6] of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow,
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.