Sonnet II, Written At Cliefden Spring

Here from the rifted rock, where boldly rise
  The ilex shining with perennial green,
  The gloomy pine, the beech's vivid skreen,
  Hoar oaks that throw their branches to the skies;
  While 'mid the boles the zephyr gently sighs,
  And woodbines sweet, and lychen, creep between,
  Amid the stillness of the sylvan scene,
  Tranquil the silver-bosom'd Naiad lies;
  While from her urn the rills redundant glide,
  Where his broad flood majestic Thames displays.
  Nor thou with haughty look, Imperial Tide,
  Upon the clear though scanty tribute gaze;
  Ne'er will the powers of Heaven itself deride
  The humblest gift the unsullied bosom pays.