James Beattie

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
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Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

And none speaks false, when there in none to hear.

And none speaks false, when there in none to hear.

Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.

Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.

How sweet the words of Truth, breath'd from the lips of Love.

How sweet the words of Truth, breath'd from the lips of Love.