I AM monarch of all I survey, | |
| My right there is none to dispute; | |
| From the centre all round to the sea, | |
| I am lord of the fowl and the brute. | |
| O solitude! where are the charms | 5 |
| That sages have seen in thy face? | |
| Better dwell in the midst of alarms | |
| Than reign in this horrible place. | |
| |
| I am out of humanity’s reach, | |
| Must finish my journey alone, | 10 |
| Never hear the sweet music of speech; | |
| I start at the sound of my own. | |
| The beasts, that roam over the plain, | |
| My form with indifference see; | |
| They are so unacquainted with man, | 15 |
| Their tameness is shocking to me. | |
| |
| Society, friendship, and love, | |
| Divinely bestowed upon man, | |
| O, had I the wings of a dove, | |
| How soon would I taste you again! | 20 |
| My sorrows I then might assuage | |
| In the ways of religion and truth, | |
| Might learn from the wisdom of age, | |
| And be cheered by the sallies of youth. | |
| |
| Religion! what treasure untold | 25 |
| Resides in that heavenly word! | |
| More precious than silver and gold, | |
| Or all that this earth can afford. | |
| But the sound of the church-going bell | |
| These valleys and rocks never heard, | 30 |
| Never sighed at the sound of a knell, | |
| Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. | |
| |
| Ye winds that have made me your sport, | |
| Convey to this desolate shore | |
| Some cordial endearing report | 35 |
| Of a land I shall visit no more. | |
| My friends, do they now and then send | |
| A wish or a thought after me? | |
| O, tell me I yet have a friend, | |
| Though a friend I am never to see. | 40 |
| |
| How fleet is a glance of the mind! | |
| Compared with the speed of its flight, | |
| The tempest itself lags behind, | |
| And the swift-winged arrows of light. | |
| When I think of my own native land, | 45 |
| In a moment I seem to be there; | |
| But alas! recollection at hand | |
| Soon hurries me back to despair. | |
| |
| But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, | |
| The beast has laid down in his lair; | 50 |
| Even here is a season of rest, | |
| And I to my cabin repair. | |
| There ’s mercy in every place, | |
| And mercy, encouraging thought! | |
| Gives even affliction a grace, | 55 |
| And reconciles man to his lot. | |
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