These Hills, the pride of all the coast,
To mighty distance seen,
With aspect bold and rugged brow,
That shade the neighbouring main:
These heights, for solitude design’d,
This rude, resounding shore—
These vales impervious to the wind,
Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend,
Half Druid, I adore.

From distant lands, a thousand sails
Your hazy summits greet—
You saw the angry Briton come,
You saw him, last, retreat!
With towering crest, you first appear
The news of land to tell;
To him that comes, fresh joys impart,
To him that goes, a heavy heart,
The lover’s long farewell.

’Tis your’s to see the sailor bold,
Of persevering mind,
To see him rove in search of care,
And leave true bliss behind;
To see him spread his flowing sails
To trace a tiresome road,
By wintry seas and tempests chac’d
To see him o’er the ocean haste,
A comfortless abode!

Your thousand springs of waters blue
What luxury to sip,
As from the mountain’s breast they flow
To moisten Flora’s lip!
In vast retirements herd the deer,
Where forests round them rise,
Dark groves, their tops in æther lost,
That, haunted still by Huddy’s ghost,
The trembling rustic flies.

Proud heights! with pain so often seen,
(With joy beheld once more)

“In early days and vanished years
   To rougher toils resigned,
You saw me rove in search of care
   And leave true bliss behind;
You saw me rig the barque so trim,” etc.

On your firm base I take my stand,
Tenacious of the shore:—
Let those who pant for wealth or fame
Pursue the watery road;—
Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights,
And health, attend these favourite heights,
Retirement’s blest abode!


This poem is in the public domain.