HERMIT'S VALLEY

With easternwinds and flowing sail

To these sequestered haunts we came,

Where verdant trees and chrystal streams

Adorn the sloping, winding vale;

Where, from the breezy grove we claim,

Our heaven on earth — poetic dreams.

These simple scenes have pleasures more

Than all the busy town can show —

More pleasure here Philanthus took,

And more he prized this lonely shore,

His pen, his pencil, and his book,

Than all the groves Madeira bore:

Here still is seen a hermit's cell,

Who, fond the haunts of men to fly,

Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade:

In mouldering caves so blest to dwell,

He sought not from the flowers that die,

A verdure, that would never fade.

To crowded courts and would-be kings,

Where fawning knaves are most caressed,

Who would, though oft’ invited, go —

When here so many charming things

By Nature to perfection dressed,

To please the man of fancy, grow?

The native of this happy spot

No cares of vain ambition haunt:

Pleased with the partner of his nest,

Life flows — and when the dream is out,

The earth, which once supplied each want,

Receives him — fainting — to her breast.