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Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, Console them for the vineyards of the south, Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home, There wanders by, a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,