A Garden-Seat At Home

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home, Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose, And slender woods that the still scene inclose, For yon magnificent and ample dome That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense The blessings of retired munificence. Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge Into the troubled ocean of that life, Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife. Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche; I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string, Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing; Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich Deign my abode to visit, and the poor Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.