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