Shall walk at eve his little empire’s bound,
Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn,
And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn,
While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales,
The orange-grove’s and fig-tree’s breath prevails;
Survey with pride beyond a monarch’s spoil,
His honest arm’s own subjugated soil;
And summing all the blessings God has given,
Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven,
That when his bones shall here repose in peace,