'Like them, abandoned to Ambition's sway, 'I sought for glory in the paths of guile; 'And fawned and smiled, to plunder and betray, 'Myself betrayed and plundered all the while; 'So gnawed the viper the corroding file. 'But now, with pangs of keen remorse, I rue 'Those years of trouble and debasement vile. 'Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue? 'Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view! XV. 'The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, 'And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast, 'Henceforth, no earthly hope with heaven shall share 'This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. 'And if for me no treasure be amassed, 'And if no future age shall hear my name, 'I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, 'And with more leisure feed this pious flame, 'Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. XVI. 'The end and the reward of toil is rest. 'Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 'Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possessed, 'Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease! 'Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 'The lay, heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 'The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, 'All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, 'If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring! XVII. 'Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 'With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, 'In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, 'Where night and desolation ever frown. 'Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; 'Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, 'With here and there a violet bestrown, 'Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave; 'And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. XVIII. 'And thither let the village swain repair; 'And, light of heart, the village maiden gay, 'To deck with flowers her half-dishevelled hair, 'And celebrate the merry morn of May. 'There let the shepherd's pipe, the live-long day, 'Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe; 'And when mild Evening comes with mantle grey, 'Let not the blooming band make haste to go; 'No ghost, nor spell, my long and last abode shall know. XIX. 'For though I fly to 'scape from fortune's rage, 'And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, 'Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, 'Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn: 'For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. 'O Man! creation's pride, heaven's darling child, 'Whom Nature's best, divinest, gifts adorn, 'Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, 'And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defiled! XX.