In milder climes, and blest with cloudless skies,
Let slender domes on hills unshelter'd rise,
Where constant seasons glad the neighbouring plains,
And Phoebus holds, not Phaëton, the reins.
But where loud waves oft vex the sea-girt shore,
And sudden tempests, unexpected, roar:
Where rough December, envious of her power,
From gentle May oft plucks the tender flower:
Where clearest morn to cloudy noon gives way,
And stormy eve excludes the hopeful day:
Where o'er the vast Atlantic vapours roll,
Or frozen sogs dark issue from the pole,
There the firm building asks the planter's aid,
"From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade."