Amid the highest branches!

O thus to revel, thus to range,

I’ll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change—

The busier crowds all peace destroying:

The toil with snow that roofs our brains,

The seeds of care which harvests pains;

The wealth for more which strains and strains,

Still less and less enjoying!

O, happy who the city’s noise,

Can quit for nature’s quiet joys—