III.
From where the hermit's cottage stood, Beneath its huge old guardian1 tree, The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, Where, in its maze2 of field and wood, And stretching many a league away, A broad and smiling valley lay：
Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, As if Death had not entered there； As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, Its birds, so gay of song and wing, Would never lose their soft perfume, Would never, never cease to sing. Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, The sky was clear, the winds were still, Rich harvests grew on every hill, The sun in mid-day glory smiled, And nature slumbered3 as a child.
