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Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,And industry of body and of mind;And elegant enjoyments, that are pureAs Nature is; too pure to be refined.
Here often hast Thou heard the Poet singIn concord with his River murmuring by;Or in some silent field, while timid SpringIs yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laidLow in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade!More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword.
If he be One that feels, with skill to partFalse praise from true, or greater from the less,Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
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