Believe me, Love, this vagrant life
O'er Nova Scotia's wilds to roam,
While far from children, friends, or wife,
Or place that I can call a home
Delights not me;—another way
My treasures, pleasures, wishes lay.

In piercing, wet, and wintry skies,
Where man would seem in vain to toil
I see, where'er I turn my eyes,
Luxuriant pasture, trees and soil.
Uncharm'd I see:—another way
My fondest hopes and wishes lay.

Oh could I through the future see
Enough to form a settled plan,
To feed my infant train and thee
And fill the rank and style of man:
I'd cheerful be the livelong day;
Since all my wishes point that way.

But when I see a sordid shed
Of birchen bark, procured with care,
Design'd to shield the aged head
Which British mercy placed there—
'Tis too, too much: I cannot stay,
But turn with streaming eyes away.

Oh! how your heart would bleed to view
Six pretty prattlers like your own,
Expos'd to every wind that blew;
Condemn'd in such a hut to moan.
Could this be borne, Cordelia, say?
Contented in your cottage stay.

'Tis true, that in this climate rude,
The mind resolv'd may happy be;
And may, with toil and solitude,
Live independent and be free.
So the lone hermit yields to slow decay;
Unfriended lives—unheeded glides away.

If so far humbled that no pride remains,
But moot indifference which way flows the stream;
Resign'd to penury, its cares and pains;
And hope has left you like a painted dream;
Then here, Cordelia, bend your pensive way,
And close the evening of Life's wretched day.