J 112

[tree]

Where bells no more affright the morn —
Where scrabble never comes —
Where very nimble Gentlemen
Are forced to keep their rooms —

Where tired Children placid sleep
Thro' Centuries of noon
This place is Bliss — this town is Heaven —
Please, Pater, pretty soon!

"Oh could we climb where Moses stood,
And view the Landscape o'er"
Not Father's bells — nor Factories,
Could scare us any more!