And seized at once with wonder and delight, Gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight. 'Twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be seen, The thick young grass arose in fresher green: The mound was newly made, no sight could pass Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass; The well-united sods so closely lay, And all around the shades defended it from day; For sycamores with eglantine were spread, A hedge about the sides, a covering over head. And so the fragrant briar was wove between, The sycamore and flowers were mix'd with green, That nature seem'd to vary the delight, And satisfied at once the smell and sight. The master workman of the bower was known Through fairylands, and built for Oberon; Who twining leaves with such proportion drew, They rose by measure, and by rule they grew; No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell, For none but hands divine could work so well. Both roof and sides were like a parlour made, A soft recess, and a cool summer shade. The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye The persons placed within it could espy; But all that pass'd without with ease was seen, As if nor fence nor tree was placed between. 'Twas border'd with a field; and some was plain With grass, and some was sow'd with rising grain, That (now the dew with spangles deck'd the ground) A sweeter spot of earth was never found. I look'd, and look'd, and still with new delight, Such joy my soul, such pleasures fill'd my sight; And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Whose odours were of power to raise from death. Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care, Even though brought thither, could inhabit there; But thence they fled as from their mortal foe; For this sweet place could only pleasure know. Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye, And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh. The spreading branches made a goodly show, And full of opening blooms was every bough: A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side, Still pecking as she pass'd; and still she drew The sweets from every flower, and suck'd the dew. Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat, And tuned her voice to many a merry note, But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear, Yet such as sooth'd my soul and pleased my ear. "Her short performance was no sooner tried, When she I sought, the nightingale, replied; So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, That the grove echo'd and the valleys rung; And I so ravish'd with her heavenly note-- I stood entranced, and had no room for thought, But all o'erpower'd with ecstasy of bliss, Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise; At length I waked, and looking round the bower, Search'd every tree, and pry'd on every flower, If any where by chance I might espy The rural poet of the melody; For still methought she sung not far away: At last I found her on a laurel spray,