She loves to tread the solitudes,
The forests and the trackless woods,
Where nature, undisturbed by man,
Pursues her voluntary plan.
Where nature's chemistry distills
The fountains and the laughing birds,
She loves to quaff her sparkling wine,
And breathe the fragrance of the pine.
She loves to dash the crystal dews
From floral shapes of varied hues,
And interweave the modest white
Of plants in spurred garlands bright.
She loves to lie within the shade,
On grassy couch, by nature made,
And listen to the warbling notes
From her fair songsters' feathered throats.
And freed from artificial wants,
She loves to dwell in nature's haunts,
And by the mountain's crystal lake
A rustic habitation make.
She loves to scale the mountain height
And watch the eagle in his flight,
Or gaze upon the azure sea
Of aerial immensity.
She loves the busy marts of trade,
She loves the things which men have made,
Though man has charms, none such as these,
In her the child of nature sees.
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