And o'er the region pour'd a living flood.
Their dusky sides by piny groves conceal'd,
A range of snow-capp'd hills the north reveal'd:
Amidst the dark-brow'd woods with murmurs hoarse
A thousand torrents took their foamy course.
The eastern limit show'd a spacious bay;
Blue Ocean redden'd in the morning ray:
Reflected lustre crown'd the chalky steep,
And stately navies darkened half the deep.
From the tall hill, beneath the sunny beam,
Three rivers, issuing, pour a various stream,
Now thro' the lawns in parted currents glide,
And now, uniting, spread an equal tide.
Unnumber'd tints the forest-boughs unfold,
And the bright waters seem to roll in gold.

Successive wonders on the Exile's breast
A visionary strange amaze impress'd;
New hopes, new fears, his trembling bosom throng,
Doubt follows doubt, and thought drives thought along.
When now the Angel, with that awful grace,
That waits on spirits of celestial race,
On the pale mortal lost in dark surprize,
Fix'd the keen radiance of his sun-like eyes:
Mild were his looks: yet, when his accents flow'd,
It seem'd as thunder shook the bursting cloud.

"Beneath the weight of earthly evil bent,
In varied toils and woes thy days were spent;
'Till cold Misfortune, with unceasing lower,