TO him who loves whate’er is good or great,
In the lone Cottage, or the Courts of Kings,
To view perspectively a NATION’S fate,
Or of the heart reveal the secret springs,
Whose soul high-swelling as the Atlantic wave,
O’er whose wide bosom blooms his native wild,
Whose deep woods shadow a long-honour’d grave,
And shelter Liberty, great Nature’s child!
With thoughts beneficent, whose views extend,
To foster Genius, in what soil e’er found,
To give to Talent, and to Taste, a friend,
And modest Merit with a wreath surround.
Nor does the Muse her scanty gifts impart,
But silent scatters in his path each flower:
Her sympathy, her feeling fill his heart,
His loved seclusion owns her soothing power.
(Mrs. Walter Spencer)
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