This to my Friend — and when a Friend inspires
My silent Harp its Masters Hand requires,
Shakes off the Dust, and makes these Rocks resound,
For Fortune plac't me in unfertile Ground;
Far from the Joys that with my Soul agree,
From Wit, from Learning, — far, oh far from thee!
Here Moss-grown Trees expand the smallest Leaf,
Here half an Acre's Corn is half a Sheaf,
Here Hills with naked Heads the Tempest meet,
Rocks at their Side, and Torrents at their Feet,
Or lazy Lakes unconscious of a Flood,
Whose dull brown  ever sleep in Mud.