A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old)
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well defired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd his concise repaft,
Stoppled his crufe, replaced his book
Within its cuftomary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To ferious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades flanting at the clofe of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Juft reach'd it when the fun was fet.
Your hermit, young and jovial firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs→→→
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Prefents it deck'd with ev'ry hue
That can feduce him not to fpare
His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long, approach life's evening fhades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
Which firft engag'd him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide-
But whether all the time it coft
To urge the fruitless chase be loft,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles purfu'd, whate'er th' event,
Muft cause him fhame or difcontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curfe;
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well defign'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His fun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompenfe his mere intent.
No virtuous wifh can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
THE green-house is my fummer feat;
My fhrubs difplac'd from that retreat
Enjoy'd the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly fong
Had been their mutual folace long,
Liv'd happy pris'ners there.
They fang, as blithe as finches fing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they lift;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And, therefore, never miss'd.
But nature works in ev'ry breast;
Instinct is never quite fupprefs'd;
And Dick felt fome defires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows feem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confin'd;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too gen'rous and fincere
To leave his friend behind.
For, fettling on his grated roof,
He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof
That he defir'd no more ;
Nor would forfake his cage at last,
'Till gently feiz'd, I shut him fast,
A pris'ner as before.
Oh ye, who never knew the joys
Of Friendship, fatisfied with noife,
Fandango, ball and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison, with a friend, preferr'd
To liberty without.
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