Since vice the world subdued and waters drown’d,
Auburn and Eden can no more be found. 
   Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will! 
Toil, care, and patience bless th’ abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue. 
   Behold the Cot! where thrives th’ industrious swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;
Screen’d from the winter’s wind, the sun’s last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
Projecting thatch the woodbine’s branches stop,
And turn their blossoms to the casement’s top: 
All need requires is in that cot contain’d,
And much that taste untaught and unrestrain’d
Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,
In one gay picture, all the royal race;
Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
The print that shows them and the verse that sings. 
   Here the last Louis on his throne is seen,
And there he stands imprison’d, and his Queen;
To these the mother takes her child, and shows
What grateful duty to his God he owes;
Who gives to him a happy home, where he
Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free;
When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried,
Are all these blessings of the poor denied. 
   There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,
Who proved Misfortune’s was the best of schools: 
And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain,
Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain. 
   The Magic-mill that grinds the gran’nams young,
Close at the side of kind Godiva hung;
She, of her favourite place the pride and joy,
Of charms at once most lavish and most coy,
By wanton act the purest fame could raise,
And give the boldest deed the chastest praise. 
   There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed;
There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel bred;
And here Saint Monday’s worthy votaries live,
In all the joys that ale and skittles give. 
   Now, lo! on Egypt’s coast that hostile fleet,
By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat;
And here shall soon another triumph come,
A deed of glory in a deed of gloom;
Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate! 
The proudest conquest at the dearest rate. 
   On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock,
Of cottage reading rests the chosen stock;
Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind
For all our wants, a meat for every mind. 
The tale for wonder and the joke for whim,
The half-sung sermon and the half-groan’d hymn. 
No need of classing; each within its place,
The feeling finger in the dark can trace;
“First from the corner, farthest from the wall,”
Such all the rules, and they suffice for all. 
   There pious works for Sunday’s use are found;
Companions for that Bible newly bound;
That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved,
Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved;
Has choicest notes by many a famous head,