The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never bloomless furz
Which now blooms most profusely; but the dell
Bathed by the mist is fresh and delicate
As vernal cornfields, or the unripe flax,
When through its half-transparent stalks at eve
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Oh! 'tis a quiet, spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love: but chiefly he,