I met thee, ----, when the leaves were green,
And living verdure clothed the countless trees;
When meadow flowers allured the summer bees,
And silvery skies shone o'er the cloudless scene,
Bright as my thoughts when wand'ring to thy home;
Where Nature looks _as though she were divine_,
Not in the richness of the rip'ning vine,
Not in the splendour of imperial Rome.
It is a ruder scene of rocks and trees,
Where even barrenness is beauty--where
The glassy lake, below the mountain bare,
Curls up its waters 'neath the casual breeze;
And, 'midst the plenitude of flower and bud,
Sweet violets hide them in the hilly wood.