On being prevented by severe illness from going thither.
SWEET spot! it cannot e'er offend I deem,
That I my solitude to guile
Should chuse thee for the subject of my theme,
Cheating my fancy with the sketch awhile.

What, tho' forbidden on thy mazy beach
In silent pensiveness to stray,
Fancy can soar above oppression's reach,
And in an instant wing the distant way.

But fancy cannot give with equal ease
All sober certainty might have,
The scent salubrious, nor the balmy breeze,
Fresh from the saline bosom of the wave.

Yet tell me, gentle spot, why crouds resort
To revel oft thy scenes among?
More suited thou for love, or reason's court,
Than the gay madness of the giddy throng.