Written on the Road,
WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.
Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais’d,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais’d.
On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cat’ract’s murm’ring waters lave,
Whilst o’er its mossy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.
Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell,
Whilst, as the gazing trav’ller passes by,
The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell.
Oh! in my native land, ere life’s decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!