Lines.
By William Cowper
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or oer the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!