THUS spent his days in labour's pleasant pain, Had liv'd and dy'd the homely shepherd swain: Had seen his children and his children's heirs, The fruit of love and memory of years To agriculture's first fair service bent, The work of mortals, and their great intent. So had the Sire his days of pleasure known, And wish'd to change no country for his own: So had he with his fair endearing wife, Pass'd the slow circle of a harmless life; With happy ignorance divinely blest, The path, the centre and the home of rest. Long might the sun have run his bright career, And long the moon her mantled visage rear; And long the stars their nightly vigils kept, And spheres harmonious either sung or wept: He had not dream'd of worlds besides his own, And thought them only stars, beyond the moon; Enjoy'd himself, nor hear'd of future hell, Or heav'n, the recompence of doing well; Had scarcely thought of an eternal state, And left his being in the hands of fate.-- O had this isle such souls sublime contain'd, And there for ages future sons remain'd: But envious time conspiring with the sea, Wash'd all it's landscapes, and it's groves away. It's trees declining, stretch'd upon the sand, No more their shadows throw across the land. It's vines no more their clust'ring beauty show, Nor sturdy oaks embrace the mountain's brow. Bare sands alone now overwhelm the coast, Lost in it's grandeur, and it's beauty lost. THUS, tho' my fav'rite isle to ruin gone, Inspires my sorrow, and demands my moan; Yet this wide land it's place can well supply With landscapes, hills and grassy mountains high. O HUDSON! thy fair flood shall be my theme, Thy winding river, or thy glassy stream; On whose tall banks tremendous rocks I spy, Dread nature in primæval majesty. Rocks, to whose summits clouds eternal cling, Or clust'ring birds in their wild wood notes sing. Hills, from whose sides the mountain echo roars, Rebounding dreadful from the distant shores; Or vallies, where refreshing breezes blow, And rustic huts in fair confusion grow, Safe from the winds, secur'd by mountains high, That seem to hide the concave of the sky; To whose top oft' the curious hind ascends, And wonders where the arch'd horizon bends; Pleas'd with the distant prospects rising new, And hills o'er hills, a never ending view. Through various paths with hasty step he scours, And breathes the odours of surrounding flow'rs, Caught from their bosoms by the fragrant breath, Of western breezes, or the gale of death.[A] Then low descending, seeks the humble dome, And centres all his pleasures in his home, 'Till day returning, brings the welcome toil, To clear the forest, or to tame the soil; To burn the woods, or catch the tim'rous deer, To scour the thicket, or contrive the snare. [A] South wind.--_Freneau's note._