"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.

.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

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.