I

Last month, where the old log-bridge is laid O’er the woodland creek, in the belts o’ the shade, To the right and the left, pink-packed, was made A gloaming glory of scented tangle By the bramble roses there--that wade, High-heaped, from the banks--with many a braid That, wilting, powdered the ruts, and swayed, To the waters beneath, loose loops of spangle; Where the breeze that blew and the beam that rayed Were murmurous-soft with the bees awrangle.