If Buonaparte's turbid mind
By chance could this Elysium find,
Ambitious Furies would retire,
And Love or Fancy tune his lyre.

Could Juno and her whisker'd Friend
Here—to be happy—condescend,
The sun of Peace would smile on both,
And Gertrude's lips refuse an oath.

The meads and woods, the hill and stream,
Are like a Poet's magic dream;
And sweet simplicity of heart,
That never yet was touch'd by art.

Yet here is Melancholy found,
And strikes ev'n this Arcadian ground;
The silver Hale a theme supplies
To sympathy and streaming eyes.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.