A Choice of Life

by Seba Smith

 
  I covet not wealth, and I care not for fame,
   But if my own lot I might choose,
A quiet retreat in some lone wood I'd claim,
   Where the pure earth drinks Heaven's pure dews.

At the north a dark mountain should solemnly rise,
   With its old trees by lightnings riven,
And its bald rocky summit look out from the skies
   To point me the right way to Heaven.

Far away to the south a green valley should spread,
   And up from its bosom should gleam,
Through maples and elms, a bright silvery thread
   Of a slow-winding, pure crystal stream;---

And a small quiet lake, on whose unruffled breast
   The wild duck might fearlessly play,
Should spread its soft waters away to the west,
   And blush in the sunsetting ray;---

And the stout-armed oak with its deep scolloped leaves
   Throw its shade on my cottage door,
And the generous soil from the seed it receives
   A bountiful harvest restore.

With the wife of my heart, and my joyous sons,
   And my book and my pen, here I'd rest,
And the wealth and the power of earth's mightiest ones,
   Were they mine, could not make me more blest.