To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew ambition's eye, 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivied shrine. 4 How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win? Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within. O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene on silent wing? 5 Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined He framed his infant lays; When Fancy roved at large, nor Care Nor cold distrust alarm'd, Nor Envy, with malignant glare, His simple youth had harm'd. 6 Twas then, O Solitude, to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy?-- O take the wanderer home! 7 Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream. Whence the scared owl on pinions gray Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose. 8 Oh, while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly-warbling song, And balmy from the bank of flowers The Zephyr breathes along; Let no rude sound invade from far, No vagrant foot be nigh, No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye. 9 But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallow'd bowers explore, O guard from harm his hoary head, And listen to his lore; For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below. 10 For me no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread; No more I climb those toilsome heights By guileful hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain; For present pleasure soon is o'er, And all the past is vain." THE HERMIT. 1 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began: No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 2