With what a fine, unyielding wish to bless, Does Nature, HORACE, manage to oppose The town's encroachments. — Vulgar he, who goes By suburb gardens, which she deigns to dress, And does not recognize her green caress Reaching back to us in those valued shews Of box-encircled flowers, or poplar rows, Or other nests for evening weariness. Then come the squares, with noon-day nymphs about, Then vines and ivy, tree-tops that look out Over back walls, — flowers in the windows too; And ev'n where Gain huddles his noisiest rout, The smile of her sweet wisdom will break through, For there, dear HORACE, has she planted you. 1817.
