Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.