Here recline you, gentle maid,

Sweet is this embowering shade;

Sweet the young, the modest trees,

Ruffled by the kissing breeze;

Sweet the little founts that weep,

Lulling soft the mind to sleep;

Hark! they whisper as they roll,

Calm persuasion to the soul;

Tell me, tell me, is not this

All a stilly scene of bliss?

"Who, my girl, would pass it by?

Surely neither you nor I."

[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.