THE VALE OF ARCADIA. 159 
Bowed to its shadow in the stream beneath, 
Or some light ripple stirred the lily’s pearly wreath. 
A velvet sward, its length deep-rimmed with flowers, 
Wound by the stream, and formed a pleasant walk, 
Shaded by boughs, sweet summer-woven bowers, 
In which the leaves did oft together talk, 
Now to themselves, then to the brook below, 
Just as the fitful winds in fancy seemed to blow. 
Sometimes a cloud, that seemed to have lost its way, 
Went sailing o’er the ridge of sable pines, 
Steeping their topmost boughs in silvery gray, 
Or “glinting” downward on the purple vine, 
Till their broad leaves threw back a moonlight gleam, 
And then a shadow swept o’er valley, tree, and stream. 
Sweet were the sounds that through Arcadia flowed : 
The gentle lambs bleated all summer long, 
The spotted heifer from the thicket lowed, 
The nightingale struck up her starlight song, 
A mournful coo the hidden ringdove made, 
Now high, now low, now list, just as the branches 
swayed. 
