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, THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. A TALE. 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 And, ftaff 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 Chill'd more his else delightful way, A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimblest In hope to bask a little yet, pace, Just reach'd it when the sun was set. Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occurs— mind computes And hence, he said, my 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. 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, A brighter prize than that he meant THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 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 And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, But nature works in ev'ry breast; And Dick felt some desires, Which, after many an effort vain, The A pass between his wires. open windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight; |