Where softest moss her various kinds had brought,
And to cling closely to a rock had taught;
Where many a shrub that Taste had train'd to grow,
From her fair hand all careless seem'd to throw;
And, bending o'er the love-wrought mossy seat,
Lilacs and roses fondly made to meet;
The modest jess'mine, too, embrac'd the bower,
Fearful to show the world too gay a flower;
Th' enamour'd eglantine her sweets defends,
And warrior spears from every arm extends;
The prickly spears the rifling fingers feel
No less acute than those of pointed steel;
The myrtle to this guardian friend applied,
Clung to his arm, fast rooted by his side.
At a small distance ran a tinkling rill,
That made sad murmurs to the rocky hill,
On which this happy bower so sweet was plac'd,
This bower so cultur'd by the hand of Taste.