What rural objects steal upon the sight!
What rising views prolong the calm delight!
“The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,
The woody islands and the naked mead,
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed,
The rural wicket and the rural stile,
And frequent interspersed the woodman’s pile.
“Above, below, where’er I turn my eyes,
Rocks, waters, woods in grand succession rise.