No mystic wonders fir'd his mind;
He sought to gain no learn'd degree,
But only sense enough to find
The _squirrel in the hollow tree_.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possess'd;
The dewy lawn his morning dream
_In fancy's gayest colours dress'd._
'And why,' he cried, 'did I forsake
My native wood for gloomy walls?
The silver stream, the limpid lake,
For musty books and college halls?
'A little could my wants supply -
Can wealth and honour give me more?
Or, will the sylvan god deny
The humble treat he gave before?
'Let seraphs reach the bright abode,
And Heav'n's sublimest mansions see: -
I only bow to Nature's God -
_The land of shades_, will do for _me_.
'These dreadful secrets of the sky
'Alarm my soul with chilling fear: -
'Do planets in their orbits fly?
'And is the Earth, indeed, a sphere?
'Let planets still their aim pursue,
'And comets round creation run -
'In Him my faithful friend I view,
'The image of my God - the Sun.
'Where Nature's ancient forests grow,
'And mingled laurel never fades,
'My heart is fix'd; and I must go
'To die among my native shades.'
He spoke, - and to the western springs
(His gown discharged, his money spent)
His blanket tied with yellow strings,
The shepherd of the forest went.
