Motion was in their days, Rest in their slumbers,

And Cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;

Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;

The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,

With the free foresters divide no spoil;

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes

Of this unsighing people of the woods.