We, who in humble cells, and learn'd retreat,
Are strangers to the splendor of the great,
On barren cliffs of speculation thrown,
Of all besides unknowing, and unknown,
Pronounce our fabrics just in ev'ry part,
And scorn the poor attempts of modern art;
(Proud of his cottage so exults the swain,
Who loves the forest, and admires the plain,)
'Till here convinc'd, unwillingly we find
Our Wickhams, and our Wainfleets, left behind;
Far as the molehill by the mountain's brow,
Or shrubs by cedars, in whose shade they grow.