The Retreat



WELCOME, dear maid! to these soft


Welcome to these Elysian plains!

With me, in this serene retreat,

Come Love, and Laura, fix your seat.


No drums, nor trumpets’ martial sound

Shall ever rend this peaceful ground;

No sabres clash, nor cannons roar,

To drench these blooming plains in gore.


When morning gilds the opening east,

Or evening veils the closing west,

Cheerful we’ll rise and hail the light,

Or steal to rest and bless the night.


When spring descends in balmy showers,

Revives the trees, and wakes the flowers;

When summer’s brighter glories shine,

Or autumn melts the luscious vine:


Then, arm in arm, we’ll gaily rove

The flushing mead, the warbling grove;

On beds of velvet moss repose,

And breathe the incense of the rose.


For thee, in this delightful bower,

I’ll garlands weave of every flower,

Which this delicious valley yields,

Or blooms in these luxuriant fields.


Even winter, desolation’s sire,

Shall smile beside our social fire;

While tempests shake the mountain’s brow,

Secure from storms we’ll sing below.


Farewell, ambition!— pride, farewell!

Presume not near this sacred cell:

Come, cherub peace!— contentment, come!

And make this favoured cot your home.


Though humble be our little lot,

The rich and great we envy not;

Can heaven bestow one bliss above

The tender luxury of love?