Retirement
Fresh
fields
and
woods!
the
Earth's
fair
face,
God's
foot-stool,
and
man's
dwelling-place.
I
ask
not
why
the
first
Believer
Did
love
to
be
a
country
liver?
Who
to
secure
pious
content
Did
pitch
by
groves
and
wells
his
tent;
Where
he
might
view
the
boundless
sky,
And
all
those
glorious
lights
on
high;
With
flying
meteors,
mists
and
show'rs,
Subjected
hills,
trees,
meads
and
flow'rs;
And
ev'ry
minute
bless
the
King
And
wise
Creator
of
each
thing.
I
ask
not
why
he
did
remove
To
happy
Mamre's
holy
grove,
Leaving
the
cities
of
the
plain
To
Lot
and
his
successless
train?
All
various
lusts
in
cities
still
Are
found;
they
are
the
thrones
of
ill;
The
dismal
sinks,
where
blood
is
spill'd,
Cages
with
much
uncleanness
fill'd.
But
rural
shades
are
the
sweet
fense
Of
piety
and
innocence.
They
are
the
Meek's
calm
region,
where
Angels
descend
and
rule
the
sphere,
Where
heaven
lies
leiger,
and
the
dove
Duly
as
dew,
comes
from
above.
If
Eden
be
on
Earth
at
all,
'Tis
that,
which
we
the
country
call.
