Another Urn at Thoresby Park

If in the summer-time, O guest,
Thou comest where these waters rest,
And where these gentle swells of land
Their ever-verdant turf expand,
Not opener these, nor those more clear,
Than was the soul that late dwelt here.
If in the winter thou hast crost
The scene benumb'd with snow and frost,
Ask those thou meetest at the gate
If they are not as desolate.