A world whose very pleasures most be won by Strife!
For, hast thou not around thee here
All blessings that can make Existence dear?
When high the noontide sunbeam burns,
Yield not these latticed walls a soothing shade?
When starry Night again returns,
Doth not her lamp light up this pleasant glade?
The soft winds bring thee odours from yon orange bowers;
Almost thy very path lies over flowers!
The trees around thee, the rich earth below,