National Gazette

Written on the Hills of the Neversink, near Sandy-Hook, July, 1791.

THESE heights, the pride of all the coast,
What happy Genius plann'd,
Aspiring o'er the distant wave,
That sinks the neighboring land!
These hills, for solitude design'd,
This bold and broken shore;
These haunts, impervious to the wind,
Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend,
Half Druid, I adore!
The lapse of time and change of lords,
Beholds you still the same;
You saw the angry Briton come,
You saw his blasted fame.
With towering crest, you first are doom'd,
The news of land to tell;
To him that comes, fresh joys impart,
To him that goes, a heavy heart,
The lover's long farewell.
In early days, and vanish'd years,
To rougher toils resign'd,
You saw me rove in search of care,
And leave true bliss behind:
You saw me rig the barque so trim,
To trace a tiresome road;
By wintry seas, and tempests chas'd
You saw me o'er the ocean haste,
A comfortless abode!
Your shaded springs of azure blue,
What luxury to sip;
As from the mountain's breast they flow
To moisten Celia's lip!
In rude retirements herd the deer,
Where forests round them rise,
Dark groves (their tops in ether lost)
Which, haunted still by Hood's ghost,
The trembling rustic flies.
Proud heights! with pain so often seen
I quit your view no more;
And see, unmoved, the passing sail,
Tenacious of the shore:-
Let those, who pant for wealth or fame,
Pursue the watery road;
Soft sleep and ease-blest days and nights,
And health, attend these favorite heights,
Retirement's blest abode.

SINBAT.