"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length, at noontide, would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.