C «8 J 



, The flowery leaf 



Wants not its loft inhabitants. Secure, 

 Within its winding citadel, the ftone 

 Holds multitudes. But chief the foreft-boughs, 

 That dance unnumb?r'd to the playful breeze, 

 The downy orchard, and the melting pulp 

 Of mellow fruit, the namelefs nations feed 

 Of evanefcent infecls. Where the pool 

 Stands mantled o'er with green, invifible, 

 Amidft the floating verdure, millions llray. 

 Each liquid too, whether it pierces, foothes, 

 Inflames., refrefhes, or exalts the tafle, 

 With various forms abounds. Nor is the flream 

 Of pureft cryftal, nor the lucid air, 

 Though one transparent vacancy it teems, 

 Void of their unfeen people 



{q) Thomfbn's Seafons, Summer, 1. 296. 



