Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
— — Hail, ye plebeian underwood!
— — Where the poetic birds rejoice,
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
— — — Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muse's richest manor seat!
— — Ye country houses and retreat
— — Which all the happy gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great
— — — Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,
— — Nature the wisest architect,
— — Who those fond artists does despise
That can the fair and living trees neglect,
— — — Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
— — Hear the soft winds above me flying
— — With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
— — — Nor be myself too mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
— — Gilt with the sunbeams here and there,
— — On whose enamelled bank I 'll walk,
And see how prettily they smile, and hear
— — — How prettily they talk.

Ah wretched, and too solitary he
— — Who loves not his own company!
— — He 'll feel the weight of 't many a day
Unless he call in sin or vanity
— — — To help to bear 't away.

O Solitude, first state of human-kind!
— — Which blest remained till man did find
— — Even his own helpers company.
As soon as two (alas!) together joined,
— — — The serpent made up three.

Though God himself, through countless ages thee
— — His sole companion chose to be,
— — Thee, sacred Solitude alone,
Before the branchy head of number's tree
— — — Sprang from the trunk of one.

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
— — Dost break and tame th' unruly heart,
— — Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it move well managed by thy art,
— — — With swiftness and with grace.

Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light,
— — Dost like a burning-glass unite,
— — Dost multiply the feeble heat,
And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright
— — — And noble fires beget.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see
— — The monster London laugh at me:
— — I should at thee too, foolish city,
If it were fit to laugh at misery,
— — — But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
— — And all the fools that crowd thee so,
— — Even thou who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
— — — A solitude almost.