The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, -- the vales...

The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, -- the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods -- rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, -- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.