THE intertwining boughs for thee
  Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest,
And thou in turn shall give to me
  A verdant couch upon thy breast.

To shield me from Day's fervid glare,
  Thine oaks their fostering arms extend,
As, anxious o’er her infant care,
  I've seen a watchful mother bend.

A brighter cup, a sweeter draught,
  I gather from that rill of thine,
Than maddening drunkards ever quaffed,
  Than all the treasures of the vine.

So smooth the pebbles on its shore,
  That not a maid can thither stray,
But counts her strings of jewels o’er,
  And thinks the pearls have slipped away.