The filent heart which grief affails,

Treads foft and lonefome o'er the vales,

Sees daifies open, rivers run,

And feeks, (as I have vainly done,)
Amusing thought; but learns to know

That folitude's the nurfe of woe.

No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a foul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky,

Converse with stars above, and know

All nature in its forms below;

The reft it feeks, in feeking dies,

And doubts at laft for knowledge rife.

Lovely, lafting peace appear

!

This world itself, if thou art here,

Is once again with Eden bleft,

And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I ftood,

I fung my wifhes to the wood,

And

And loft in thought, no more perceiv'd

The branches whifper as they wav'd:
It seem'd, as all the quiet place

Confefs'd the presence of the Grace.

When thus she spoke-Go rule thy will,

Bid thy wild paffions all be ftill,

Know God

and bring thy heart to know,

The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry Grace fhall prove its Guest,

And I'll be there to crown the reft.

Oh! by yonder mofly seat,

In my hours of sweet retreat;
Might I thus my foul employ,

With fenfe of gratitude and joy :
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,

In heav'nly vifion, praise, and pray'r ;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,

- Pleas'd and blefs'd with God alone:

Then while the gardens take my fight,

With all the colours of delight;

While filver waters glide along,

To please my ear, and court my song ::
I'll lift my voice, and tune my ftring,
And thee, great Source of Nature, fing.
The fun that walks his airy way,

To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light ;.
The ftars that gild the gloomy night;

The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;

The wood that spreads its fhady leaves ;
The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I fee,

Shou'd be fung, and fung by me :

They speak their Maker as they can,

1

But want and afk the tongue of man.

Go fearch among your idle dreams, Your bufy, or your vain extreams; And find a life of equal bliss,

Or own the next begun in this,

The

F

The

HERMIT.

AR in a wild, unknown to publick view,

From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew;
The mofs his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the chrystal well:
Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days,
Pray'r all his bus'nefs, all his pleasure praise.

A life fo facred, fuch ferene repose,
Seem'd heav'n itself, 'till one fuggestion rofe;
That vice fhou'd triumph, virtue vice obey,
This fprung fome doubt of providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain profpect boaft,
And all the tenour of his foul is loft:

So when a fmooth expanfe receives impreft
Calmn nature's image on its watry breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,

And skies beneath with answʼring colours glow:
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry fide,

And

And glimmering fragments of a broken fun,
Banks, trees, and fkies, in thick diforder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by fight,
To find if books, or Swains, report it right;
(For yet by Swains alone the world he knew,
Whofe feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the Pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'd the fcallop in his hat before;
Then with the fun a rifing journey went,

Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wafted in the pathless grafs, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the Southern fun had warm'd the day, A Youth came pofting o'er a croffing way; His rayment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cry'd, And hail, my Son, the rev'rend Sire reply'd ; Words follow'd words, from queftion answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road;