Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted praised,
Content and innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have raised.

On a grey rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cat'ract's murm'ring waters lave,
Whilst o'er its mossy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell,
Whilst, as the gazing trav'ller passes by,
The grey goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell.
Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!