You
The foot of Snowden the rocks rear themselves and fantastic piles even to the clouds
Expanding hills cast in a broader and deeper shade
The majestic dark brown foregrounds a gray or purple summits
You're the dense wood the purple heath
There with the race of man appears to be extinct
We're not a tree. No shrub. No cottage. We'll remind you of humanity
When no sound is heard the rushing of waters the union of stream lake and fall
Blue mists on the distant hills
The beautifully variegated foliage of the trees
Fragrant dew yet glittering on urban flower
The early morning song birds winds whistling through the mountain hollows
Under the thousand changing hills no soft no brilliant touches
There's deeper mingling lights and shadows of the falling year
No where can the lover of science botanist the angler the artist the antiquary or the geologist
find more pleasing occupation for their several dispositions
Scarcely in all nature can a scene will truly grand be witnessed in this imprisoned paradise
which man was never yet resumed to touch
