How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll
Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind
Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind,
Yet not a pang that England's name imparts,
Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts;
Bound to that native world by nature's bond,
Full little shall their wishes rove beyond
Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams.
Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.
How many a name, to us uncouthly wild,