Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived
By fancy, or choice, but of necessity,
By soft gradations of ascent to lead
The labouring and way-worn feet along,
And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,
Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,
O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,
Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench
Invites to short refreshment, and to taste
What grateful beverage the house may yield