| I AM monarch of all I survey; |
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| My right there is none to dispute; |
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| From the centre all round to the sea |
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| I am lord of the fowl and the brute |
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| O Solitude! where are the charms |
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| That sages have seen in thy face? |
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| Better dwell in the midst of alarms, |
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| Than reign in this horrible place. |
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| I am out of humanity’s reach; |
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| I must finish my journey alone; |
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| Never hear the sweet music of speech— |
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| I start at the sound of my own; |
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| The beasts that roam over the plain |
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| My form with indifference see— |
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| They are so unacquainted with man, |
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| Their tameness is shocking to me. |
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| Society, Friendship, and Love |
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| Divinely bestow’d upon man, |
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| Oh had I the wings of a dove |
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| How soon would I taste you again! |
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| My sorrows I then might assuage |
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| In the ways of religion and truth, |
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| Might learn from the wisdom of age, |
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| And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth. |
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| Ye winds that have made me your sport, |
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| Convey to this desolate shore |
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| Some cordial endearing report |
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| Of a land I shall visit no more. |
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| My friends, do they now and then send |
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| A wish or a thought after me? |
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| O tell me I yet have a friend, |
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| Though a friend I am never to see. |
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| How fleet is a glance of the mind! |
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| Compared with the speed of its flight, |
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| The tempest itself lags behind, |
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| And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. |
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| When I think of my own native land, |
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| In a moment I seem to be there; |
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| But, alas! recollection at hand |
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| Soon hurries me back to despair. |
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| But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, |
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| The beast is laid down in his lair; |
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| Even here is a season of rest, |
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| And I to my cabin repair. |
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| There’s mercy in every place; |
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| And mercy—encouraging thought!— |
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| Gives even affliction a grace, |
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| And reconciles man to his lot. |
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