And some their waxen vessels wrought,
Their purpose to preserve;
So heaping, for keeping,
It in their hives they hide,
Precisely and wisely,
For Winter they provide.
VI.
To paint the pleasures of that park,
How every blossom branch and bark.
Against the sun did shine,
I leave to poets to compile,
In high heroic stately stile.
Whoso muse surmatches mine.
But as l looked all alone,
I saw a river flow,
Out o’er a steepy rock of stone,
Then lighted fast below,
With tumbling and rumbling
Among the rocks around,
Devalling and falling
Into a pit profound.
VII.
Through roaring of the river rang
The rocks, resounding like a sang,
Blyth music did abound;
With trible, tenor counter mean,
And Echo blew a bass between.
In Diapason sound;
Set on Nature’s clearest clift.
With thorow base at list;
With quaver, crotchet, semibrif,
And not a minium mist;
Completely more sweetly
A cording flat or sharp,
Than muse ere did use ere
To pin Apollo’s harp.
VIII.
Who could have tir’d to hear that tune,
With birds concerting it so soon,
