Friendship and love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere; No threatening woes of present joys bereave him, No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! Happy swain! Such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view; Me, who from home and Spain an exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats, Some village-swain imploring amorous pity, Or shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes:

No more my arms a parent’s fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm, must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces, To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.

Where Indian Suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day: