What joy within these sunless groves,
Where lonely contemplation roves,
To rest in fearless ease!
Save weeping rills, to see no tear,
Save dying gales, no sigh to hear,
No murmur but the breeze.
Ah! Friend! ambition's prospects close,
And studious of your own repose
Be thankful here to live;
For, trust me, one protecting shed.mw-parser-output .wst-pline{color:#2E8B57;font-size:83%}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-default2{margin-left:1em}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-r{float:right;text-indent:0;margin-left:1em}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-l{float:left;text-align:right;margin-left:-3em;width:2.5em}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-or{float:right;text-align:right;margin-right:-3em;width:2.5em}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-n{font-style:normal}.mw-parser-output .wst-pline-i{font-style:italic}10
And nightly peace, and daily bread,
Is all that life can give
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Langhorne.