Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower
—From any garden of the rich and great,
Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour,
—Some novel form of wonder to create.
Enough for me the leafy woods to rove,
—And gather simple cups of morning dew,
Or, in the fields and meadows that I love,
—Find beauty in their bells of every hue.
Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air,
—And though the rustic plot be humbly laid,
Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there,
—I have not toiled, but take what God has made.
——My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in scorn;
——I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn.