A Garden-Seat At Home

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home,
  Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose,
  And slender woods that the still scene inclose,
  For yon magnificent and ample dome
  That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise
  Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways
  Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense
  The blessings of retired munificence.
  Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge
  Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here
  I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear
  O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge
  Into the troubled ocean of that life,
  Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife.
  Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche;
  I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string,
  Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing;
  Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich
  Deign my abode to visit, and the poor
  Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.