III.

The golden rains are dashed against Those verdant walls of lime and beech With which our happy vale is fenced Against the north; yet cannot reach

The stems that lift yon leafy crest High up above their dripping screen: The chestnut fans are downward pressed On banks of bluebell hid in green.

White vapours float along the glen, Or rise from every sunny brake;— A pause amid the gusts—again The warm shower sings across the lake.

Sing on, all-cordial showers, and bathe The deepest root of loftiest pine! The cowslip dimmed, the "primrose rathe" Refresh; and drench in nectarous wine

Yon fruit-tree copse, all blossomed o'er With forest-foam and crimson snow— Behold! above it bursts once more The world-embracing, heavenly bow!