 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
161
THE WHITE COTTAGE.
Thou peaceful cot beneath whose roof
The calmest, purest joys are mine;
Where sweetest smiles, affection's proof,
Their sunny rays, for my behoof,
With mildest, purest, lustre shine.
No pilgrim of the stormy main,
Enters his haven with such joy
As fills my bosom, when I gain
Thy evening shelter, and obtain
The kiss of welcome from my boy.
The calmest, purest joys are mine;
Where sweetest smiles, affection's proof,
Their sunny rays, for my behoof,
With mildest, purest, lustre shine.
No pilgrim of the stormy main,
Enters his haven with such joy
As fills my bosom, when I gain
Thy evening shelter, and obtain
The kiss of welcome from my boy.
Thy snow-white walls—the lattice green,
Which veils each modest eye of thine;
The trees which throw their shade between,
On which the ripening fruit is seen,
The gay, rose melons, and the vine—
All—all delight me—but the door
Admits me to a heaven within;
No fretted ceiling, fitted floor,
Nor gorgeous trappings—but there 's more
Of real bliss than monarchs win.
Which veils each modest eye of thine;
The trees which throw their shade between,
On which the ripening fruit is seen,
The gay, rose melons, and the vine—
All—all delight me—but the door
Admits me to a heaven within;
No fretted ceiling, fitted floor,
Nor gorgeous trappings—but there 's more
Of real bliss than monarchs win.
162
Connubial joys and filial love
Await my evening welcome home—
Delights the virtuous prize above
The brightest chaplets ever wove
For demigods of Greece or Rome.
This is my empire—here enthroned,
I envy not the proudest king;
My sceptre ne'er can be disowned,
For hearts of love, the sweetest toned,
To me their joyful anthems sing.
Await my evening welcome home—
Delights the virtuous prize above
The brightest chaplets ever wove
For demigods of Greece or Rome.
This is my empire—here enthroned,
I envy not the proudest king;
My sceptre ne'er can be disowned,
For hearts of love, the sweetest toned,
To me their joyful anthems sing.
Yes, dear loved cottage, while beneath
Thy humble roof true bliss is mine,
The votive chaplet I will wreath,
And here my grateful numbers breathe,
To thank the Giver's hand divine.
The charms of palace, tower, or dome,
With guilded pomp, I covet not;
Thou, dear “White Cottage,” art my home,
From hence I never wish to roam;
Content can gild the humblest lot.
Thy humble roof true bliss is mine,
The votive chaplet I will wreath,
And here my grateful numbers breathe,
To thank the Giver's hand divine.
The charms of palace, tower, or dome,
With guilded pomp, I covet not;
Thou, dear “White Cottage,” art my home,
From hence I never wish to roam;
Content can gild the humblest lot.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |