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.