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And with scenes that new rapture inspire

As oft as it suits her to roam,

She will have just the life she prefers,

With little to wish 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 desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set forth to share

The sober cordial of sweet air,

Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chill’d more his else delightful way,
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reach'd it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occursAnd hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game,

Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue

That can seduce him not to spare

His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend

On so desirable an end.

Ere long, approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
Which first engag'd him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-

But whether all the time it cost

To urge

the fruitless chase be lost,

Must be decided by the worth

Of that which call'd his ardour forth.

Trifles pursu'd, whate'er th' event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;

A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curse;

But he, whom e'en in life's last stage

Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.



The green-house is my summer seat; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat

Enjoy'd the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,

Liv'd happy pris’ners there.

They sang, as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, ,
But that delight they never knew,

And, therefore, never miss'd.

But nature works in ev'ry breast;
Instinct is never quite suppress'd;

And Dick felt some desires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain


between his wires.

The open

windows seem'd to invite

The freeman to a farewell flight;

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