The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attird woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.