Henry Kirke White (1785–1806)

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,

And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man’s pursuits, shun his ways.

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain torrent’s distant noise,

Or the hoarse bittern’s solitary note,

I shall not want the world’s delusive joys;

But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;

And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I’ll raise my pillow on the desert shore,

And lay me down to rest where the wild wave

Shall make sweet music o’er my lonely grave.