Deep in a sea of waving wood

Deep in a sea of waving wood The monarch’s rustic lodge was seen, Where brightly roll’d the river down, And gently sloped the banks of green. No princely dome that lodge appear’d, No tall and shapely columns rear’d Their finished architraves on high, With cornice mounting to the sky; No foreign artist’s skilful hand Had shed Corinthian graces there: That simple dwelling had been plann’d By workmen under nature’s care. The sun by day, or moon by night, Had never sent a ray of light Upon a lovelier spot than this, Or seen a home of purer bliss. Beneath the tall elms’ branching shade The eye might reach a fairy glade, Where sprightly deer were often seen, In frolic sport, on plats of green, From morning’s dawn till noontide heat Invited to some cool retreat; Then away to the sheltering grove they fled With a high-curved neck and a lofty tread. Beside the open glade there grew Green clustering oaks, and maples tall, Forming a native bower, whose view Was more enchanting far than all The stiff embellishments of art, That human culture could impart To garden, grot, or waterfall. Within that bower a fountain, gushing, Babbled sweetly all the day, And round it many a wild-flower, blushing, Drank the morning dew of May.