The painted ruler of the scene around;
And the far hills that raise
Their wooded tops, by Summer lovely made,
In marks of ancient Indian rule abound.
When the life-stream is frozen in my veins,
And hollow are my features with decay,
I fondly hope my cold and stiff remains
May not be hidden from the light of day,
In the dank yard where hundreds hide their dead;
For I would rather have a pleasant grave