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, and 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.