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Updated: May 4, 2025
Oft on some evening, sunny, soft, and still, The Muse shall hand thee to the beech-grown hill, To spend in tea the cool, refreshful hour, Where nods in air the pensile, nest-like bower; Or where the Hermit hangs his straw-clad cell, Emerging gently from the leafy dell: Romantic spot! from whence in prospect lies Whate'er of landscape charms our feasting eyes; The pointed spire, the hall, the pasture-plain, The russet fallow, and the golden grain; The breezy lake that sheds a gleaming light, Till all the fading picture fails the sight.... Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below, Where round the verdurous village orchards blow; There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat, A rural, sheltered, unobserved retreat.
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