TWO reasons, good or bad, the father led To fly the world:--all intercourse to dread Since fate had torn his lovely spouse from hence; Misanthropy and fear o'ercame each sense; Of the world grown tired, he hated all around:-- Too oft in solitude is sorrow found. His partner's death produced distaste of life, And made him fear to seek another wife. A hermit's gloomy, mossy cell he took, And wished his child might thither solely look. AMONG the poor his little wealth he threw, And with his infant son alone withdrew; The forest's dreary wilds concealed his cell; There Philip (such his name) resolved to dwell. BY holy motives led, and not chagrin, The hermit never spoke of what he'd seen; But, from the youth's discernment, strove to hide, Whate'er regarded love, and much beside, The softer sex, with all their magick charms, That fill the feeling bosom with alarms. As years advanced, the boy with care he taught; What suited best his age before him brought; At five he showed him animals and flow'rs, The birds of air, the beasts, their sev'ral pow'rs; And now and then of hell he gave a hint, Old Satan's wrath, and what might awe imprint, How formed, and doomed to infamy below; In childhood FEAR 's the lesson first we know! THE years had passed away, when Philip tried, In matters more profound his son to guide; He spoke of Paradise and Heav'n above; But not a word of woman,--nor of LOVE. Fifteen arrived, the sire with anxious care, Of NATURE'S works declaimed,--but not the FAIR: An age, when those, for solitude designed, Should be to scenes of seriousness confined, Nor joys of youth, nor soft ideas praised The flame soon spreads when Cupid's torch is raised.