Who hate the fiery front of Mars;
Who scorn the mean, the sordid breast—
Who fly Ambition’s guilty cares:
Ye who are blest with peaceful souls,
Rest Here: Enjoy the pleasures round:
Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls,
And lightly print the mazy ground.
Thrice welcome to this humble scene—
(To ye alone such scenes belong)
Peace smiles upon the fragrant green,