Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.
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And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
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RGB: 165 164 164
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RGB: 202 197 197
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RGB: 155 129 129
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RGB: 236 217 217
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RGB: 243 237 237
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air.