Between two Hills, the highest Phaebus sees,
Gallantly crown'd with large Sky-kissing Trees,
Under whose Shade the humble Vallies lay,
And wild Boars from their Dens their Gambols play.
There lay a Gravell'd-Walk o'ergrown with Green,
Where neither Track of Man, nor Beast, was seen.
And, as the Ploughman, when the Land he tills,
Throws up the fruitful Earth in ridged Hills;
Between whose Chevron -Form he leaves a Balk,
So 'twixt those Hills had Nature fram'd this Walk:
Not Over-dark, nor Light, in Angles bending,
And, like the gliding of a Snake , descending:
All husht and silent, as the Mid of Night,
No chatt'ring Pye , nor Crow appear'd in Sight;
But, farther in, I heard the Turtle-Dove ,
Singing sad Dirges on her lifeless Love.
Birds that Compassion from the Rocks could bring,
Had only License in that Place to sing;
Whose doleful Notes the melancholy Cat ,
Close in a hollow. Tree, sat wond'ring at.
And Trees that on the Hill-Side comely grew,
When any little Blast of Æol blew,
Did nod their curled Heads, as they would be,
The Judges to approve their Melody.