FROM hence the Muse to silver  flies,
On whose green Margin  Turrets rise.
Here often round the verdant Plain I stray,
Where THOMSON sung his bold, unfetter'd Lay;
Or climb the winding, mazy Mountain's Brow;
And, tho' I swiftly walk, ascend but slow.
The spiral Paths in gradual Circles lead,
Increase my Journey, and elude my Speed:
Yet, when at length I reach the lofty Height,
Towns, Vallies, Rivers, Meadows meet my Sight;
A thousand grateful Objects round me smile,
Whose various Beauties overpay my Toil.