Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 

 Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 

 And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 

 And gives to hiin alone his bliss to know, 

 Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? 

 Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms, 

 And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 

 Though fraught with ruin, infamy and death ? 

 Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings 

 Know what calm joy from purer sources springs: 

 Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 

 The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 

 No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 

 The deadly chalice would no more allure, 

 But the sweet potion he was wont to sip 

 Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 



Fair Nature! thee in 'all thy varied charms, 

 Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms ! 

 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 

 Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 



Henry KlBKE White. 



