| | | 1. |
| | | I am monarch of all I survey, |
| | | My right there is none to dispute, |
| | | From the centre all round to the sea, |
| | | I am lord of the fowl and the brute. |
| | | Oh solitude! Where are the charms |
| | | That sages have seen in thy face? |
| | | Better dwell in the midst of alarms, |
| | | Than reign in this horrible place. |
| | | |
| | | 2. |
| | | I am out of humanity's reach, |
| | | I must finish my journey alone, |
| | | Never hear the sweet music of speech, |
| | | I start at the sound of my own. |
| | | The beasts that roam over the plain, |
| | | My form with indifference see, |
| | | They are so unacquainted with man, |
| | | Their tameness is shocking to me. |
| | | |
| | | 3. |
| | | Society, friendship, and love, |
| | | Divinely bestow'd upon man, |
| | | Oh had I the wings of a dove, |
| | | How soon wou'd I taste you again! |
| | | My sorrows I then might assuage |
| | | In the ways of religion and truth, |
| | | Might learn from the wisdom of age, |
| | | And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. |
| | | |
| | | 4. |
| | | Religion! what treasure untold |
| | | Resides in that heav'nly word! |
| | | More precious than silver and gold, |
| | | Or all that this earth can afford. |
| | | But the sound of the church going bell |
| | | These vallies and rocks never heard, |
| | | Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, |
| | | Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. |
| | | |
| | | 5. |
| | | Ye winds that have made me your sport, |
| | | Convey to this desolate shore, |
| | | Some cordial endearing report |
| | | Of a land I shall visit no more. |
| | | My friends do they now and then send |
| | | A wish or a thought after me? |
| | | O tell me I have yet a friend, |
| | | Though a friend I am never to see. |
| | | |
| | | 6. |
| | | How fleet is a glance of the mind! |
| | | Compar'd with the speed of its flight, |
| | | The tempest itself lags behind, |
| | | And the swift winged arrows of light. |
| | | When I think of my own native land, |
| | | In a moment I seem to be there; |
| | | But alas! recollection at hand |
| | | Soon hurries me back to despair. |
| | | |
| | | 7. |
| | | But the sea fowl is gone to her nest, |
| | | The beast is laid in his lair, |
| | | Ev'n here is a season of rest, |
| | | And I to my cabbin repair. |
| | | There is mercy in ev'ry place, |
| | | And mercy, encouraging thought! |
| | | Gives even affliction a grace, |
| | | And reconciles man to his lot. |
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First published 1782.
Contributed by Robert Clark.
