"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 ruin'd 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? 20 "Along yon glittering sky what glory streams! What majesty attends Night's lovely queen! Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams; And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, And all conspire to beautify the scene. But, in the mental world, what chaos drear! What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien! O when shall that Eternal Morn appear, These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear? 21 "O Thou, at whose creative smile, yon Heaven, In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light, Rose from the abyss; when dark Confusion, driven Down, down the bottomless profound of night, Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight! O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, To blast the fury of oppressive might, Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way!" 22 Silence ensued; and Edwin raised his eyes In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. "And is it thus in courtly life," he cries, "That man to man acts a betrayer's part? And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert, Each social instinct, and sublime desire? Hail, Poverty! if honour, wealth, and art, If what the great pursue and learn'd admire, Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire!" 23 He said, and turn'd away; nor did the Sage O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd. The Youth, his rising sorrow to assuage, Home, as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd: For now no cloud obscures the starry void; The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills; [2] Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd; A soothing murmur the lone region fills Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills. 24 But he from day to day more anxious grew, The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear. Nor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue; For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear; And none speaks false, where there is none to hear. "Yet, can man's gentle heart become so fell? No more in vain conjecture let me wear My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell; 'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel." 25