O fortunate old man! Then these ancestral folds are yours again; And wide enough for you. Though naked stone, And marsh with slimy rush, abut upon The lowlands, yet your pregnant ewes shall try No unproved forage; neighb'ring flocks, too nigh, Strike no contagion, nor infect the young: O fortunate, who now at last, among Known streams and sacred fountain-heads have found A shelter and a shade on your own ground. |