Classic Poem

High, o'er the winding of a cliffy shore,
From whose worn steep, the back'ning surges roar;
Freeman — sweet lot! in quiet plenty, lives;
Rich, in the unbought wealth, which nature gives;
Un-planted groves rise, round his shelter'd seat ,
And self-sown flow'rs attract his wand'ring feet;
Lengths of wild garden his near views adorn,
And far-seen fields wave , with domestic corn.

The grateful herds , which his own pastures feed ,
Pay their ask'd lives, and, in due tribute, bleed.
Here, in learn'd leisure , he relaxes life,
'Twixt prattling children , and a smiling wife .
Here, on dependant want , he sheds his care,
Moves, amid smiles , and all, he hears, is pray'r .
The world lies round him, like a subject soil,
Stor'd, for his service , but, beneath his toil .

Hence, in a morning walk, his piercing eye
Skims the green ocean , to the circling sky.
And marks, at distance, some returning sail ,
Wing'd, by the courtship of a flatt'ring gale.
The fearless crew , concluding danger o'er,
With gladd'ning shouts, salute the op'ning shore.
They think how, best, they may their gains employ,
And antedate thin scenes of promis'd joy.
'Till a near quick-sand checks their shorten'd way,
And the sunk masts point thro' the rising spray .
Freeman starts, sad! revolves the changeful sight,
Where mis'ry can, so soon, succeed delight ;
Then, shakes his head, in pity of their fate,
And sweetly conscious, hugs his happier state.