Near the vale's fresh fountain

Near the vale's fresh fountain, Having past the mountain, I found relief, at play Of the first beams of day. I thought to die upon The mountain summits lone, With cold and hunger, lost Mid glaciers, snows, and frost. Beside the sparkling rill, At foot of a small hill, A shepherdess I met,— I see her smiling yet: Her cheeks made e'en the red Ripe roses pale; I said To her, 'Good morrow, sweet, I worship at thy feet!' &c.