John Scott of Amwell

"I hate that drum’s discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; And when Ambition’s voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. I hate that drum’s discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To me it talks of ravag’d plains, And burning towns, and ruin’d swains, And mangled limbs, and dying groans, And widows’ tears, and orphans’ moans; And all that Misery’s hand bestows, To fill the catalogue of human woes."

"Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors, And rough flint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores, And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high, Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky."

"There spread the wild rose, there the woodbine twin'd; There stood green fern, there o'er the grassy ground Sweet camomile and ale-hoof spread around; And centaury red, and yellow cinquefoil grew, And scarlet campion and cyanus blue; And tufted thyme, and marjoram's purple bloom, And ruddy strawberries yielding rich perfume."

"[N]one but a poet could have made such a garden."