On his arrival at his estate by the Lake of Geneva

O Take, O keep me, ever blest domains,
Where lovely Flora with Pomona reigns;
Where Art fulfils what Nature's voice requires,
And gives the charms to which my verse aspires;
Take me, the world with transport I resign,
And let your peaceful solitude be mine!

Yet not in these retreats I boast to find
That perfect bliss that leaves no wish behind;
This, to no lonely shade kind Nature brings,
Nor Art bestows on courtiers, or on kings;
Not even the Sage this boon has e'er possess'd,
Tho' join'd with wisdom, virtue shar'd his breast;
This transient life, alas! can ne'er suffice
To reach the distant goal, and snatch the prize;
Yet, sooth'd to rest, we feel suspence from woe,
And tho' not perfect joy, yet joy we know.

Enchanting scenes! what pleasure you dispense
Where'er I turn, to every wondering sense!
An *ocean here, where no rude tempest roars,
With crystal waters laves the hallow'd shores;
Here flowery fields with rising hills are crown'd,
Where clustering vines empurple all the ground;
Now by degrees from hills to Alps they rise,
Hell groans beneath, above they pierce the skies!
See the proud summit, white with endless frost,
Eternal bulwark of the blissful coast!
The blissful coast the hardy Lombards gain,
And frost and mountains cross their course in vain;
Here Glory beckon'd mighty chiefs of old,
And planted laurels to reward the bold;
Charles, Otho, Conti heard her trumpet sound,
And, borne on victory's wings, they spurn'd the mound.

See, on those banks where yon calm waters swell,
The hair-clad epicure's luxurious cell!
See fam'd Ripaille, where once so grave, so gay,
Great Amedeus† pass'd from prayer to play:
Fantastic wretch! thou riddle of thy kind!
What strange ambition seiz'd thy frantic mind?
Prince, hermit, lover! blest thro' every hour
With blissful change of pleasure and of power,
Couldst thou, thus paradis'd, from care remote,
Rush to the world, and fight for Peter's boat?
Now by the Gods of sweet repose I swear,
I would not thus have barter'd ease for care,
Spight of the keys that move our fear and hope,
I ne'er would quit such penance to be Pope.

[Excerpt]

Translated from the French.