Grongar, in whofe filent fhade,
For the modeft Mufes made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head;
While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead, and over wood,
From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And. viftoes fhooting beams of day:
Wide and wider fpreads the vale;
As circles on a smooth canal :
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rife :
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.
Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landskip lies below! V
No clouds, no vapours intervene;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of Nature fhow,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
