Are still on foot; and as they go They sigh, and say, their Lord went so. Give me my staff then, as it stood When green and growing in the wood; --Those stones, which for the altar serv'd, Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd-- With this poor stick I'll pass the ford, As Jacob did; and Thy dear word, As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it, Shall in the passage be my meat, And none else will Thy servant eat. Thus, thus, and in no other sort, Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't; And leaving the wise world their way, Go through, though judg'd to go astray. THE BEE. From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders, Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders, Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs, And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds, To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John. When truth and piety are miss'd Both in the rulers and the priest; When pity is not cold, but dead, And the rich eat the poor like bread; While factious heads with open coil And force, first make, then share, the spoil; To Horeb then Elias goes, And in the desert grows the rose. Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busy worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day! Hail, happy, harmless solitude! Our sanctuary from the rude And scornful world; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness! Here something still like Eden looks; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks, And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, When the toils of the day are done, And the tir'd world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells; Their busy murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite, And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast. When in the East the dawn doth blush, Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush; Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread, Trees whisper praise, and bow the head: Birds, from the shades of night releas'd, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their joys: Then prays that all the world may be Bless'd with as sweet an unity. If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade: Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend; And hard by shelters on some bough Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.