See, where the winding vale its lavish stores, Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass, Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank, In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk, Where the breeze blows from yon extended field, Of blossom'd beans. Arabia can not boast A fuller gale of joy than, liberal, thence Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot, Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers, The negligence of Nature, wide and wild; Where, undisguis'd by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. Here their delicious task the fervent bees, In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart, Through the soft air the busy nations fly, Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul; And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare The purple heath, or where the wild-thyme grows, And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders: now the bowery walk Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bending sky; the river now Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake, The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, The ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace: Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first; The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes; The yellow wallflower, stain'd with iron-brown; And lavish stock, that scents the garden round; From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves: And full ranunculus, of glowing red. Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays Her idle freaks: from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust, The varied colors run; and, while they _break_ On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks, With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud, First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes: Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin-white, Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils, Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair, As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; Nor broad carnations; nor gay-spotted pinks; Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression can not paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.