Whoe’er Thou art these lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding I joy my lonely days to lead in This Desart drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs: Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers; For well I saw in Halls and Towers That Lust and Pride, The Arch-Fiend’s dearest darkest Powers, In state preside. I saw Mankind with vice incrusted; I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted; That few for aught but folly lusted; That He was still deceiv’d, who trusted In Love or Friend; And hither came with Men disgusted My life to end. In this lone Cave, in garments lowly, Alike a Foe to noisy folly, And brow-bent gloomy melancholy I wear away My life, and in my office holy Consume the day. Content and comfort bless me more in This Grot, than e’er I felt before in A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring This wish I sigh. “Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, or loose desire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire, ‘To God I fly’!” Stranger, if full of youth and riot As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at The Hermit’s prayer: But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at Thy fault, or care; If Thou hast known false Love’s vexation, Or hast been exil’d from thy Nation, Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, And makes thee pine, Oh! how must Thou lament thy station, And envy mine!