To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that the leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire
As oft as it fuits her to roam,
She will have just the life the prefers,
With little to wifh or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit, could have well defired,
His hours of ftudy closed at laft,
And finished his concise repaft,
Stoppled his crufe, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To ferious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fringed his hill,
Shades flanting at the close of day
Chilled more his elfe delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Juft reached it when the fun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial, firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it decked with every hue,
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening fhades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earned too late, it wants the grace,
Which firft engaged him in the chase.
True, anfwered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide-
But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitless chase be loft,
Muft be decided by the worth
Of that, which called his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or difcontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curse;
But he, whom ev'n in life's laft ftage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well defigned;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His fun precipitate defcend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompenfe his mere intent.
No virtuous wifh can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
THE green-house is my fummer feat; My fhrubs difplaced from that retreat Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual folace long, Lived happy prisoners there.
They fang, as blithe as finches fing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they lift;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miffed.
But nature works in every breaft;
Inftinct is never quite fuppreffed;
And Dick felt fome defires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain
A pafs between his wires.
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