A hill there was, and on that hill a mead, With verdure thick, but destitute of shade; Where, now, the muse’s son no sooner sings, No sooner strikes his sweet-resounding strings, But distant groves the flying sounds receive, And listening trees their rooted stations leave; Themselves transplanting, all around they grow, And various shades their various kinds bestow: Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread, While weeping poplars, there, erect their head; The foodful esculus here shoots his leaves; That turf, soft lime-tree, this, fat beech, receives: Here, brittle hazels; laurels, here, advance; And there, tough ash, to form the hero’s lance: Here, silver firs, with knotless trunks, ascend; There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend: That spot admits the hospitable plane; On this, the maple grows with clouded grain: Here, watery willows are with lotus seen; There, tamarisk, and box, for ever green: With double hue, here, myrtles grace the ground, And laurustines with purple berries crown’d; With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind, Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwined;