There was a night, when wintry winds did rage, Hard by a ruin'd pile I met a sage; 90 Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd, Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard; Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's dome, Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home. His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast, And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past; His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound, And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground; Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow, He shook, from locks as white, December's snow; 100 Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease, But lock'd within him meditated peace. "Father," I said--for silver hairs inspire, And oft I call the bending peasant Sire-- "Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower, That works fantastic round its trembling tower, We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar, Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor; For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu, And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. 110 "There was a time when, by Delusion led, A scene of sacred bliss around me spread; On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood, And saw my Canaan there, my promised good. A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd, And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd; As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd, And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd: On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand, Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land." 120 "Son," said the Sage--"be this thy care suppressed; The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best: Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more, And would thy patience, when they make thee poor. But other thoughts within thy bosom reign, And other subjects vex thy busy brain; Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite, And thy sad stars have destined thee to write. Then, since that task the ruthless fates decree, Take a few precepts from the Gods and me! 130