Make up thy life, and such a life is sweet.
What though beneath this artificial shade
No Fauns have gambolled and no Dryads strayed!
Though the coy nurslings of serener skies
Shudder when Caledonian tempests rise,
Yet sways a cheering influence o’er the grove
More soft than nature, more sedate than love.
And not unhonoured shall thy grove ascend
For every stem was planted by a friend,
And she, at whose command its shades arise,