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
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!”
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:*
Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd;
A soothing murmur the lone region fills,
Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills.
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.'
* How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.-Shakspeare.
At early dawn the youth his journey took,
And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide,
Then reach'd the wild: where, in a flowery nook,
And seated on a mossy stone, he spied
An ancient man: his harp lay him beside.
A stag sprang from the pasture at his call,
And, kneeling, lick'd the wither'd hand that tied
A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall,
And hung his lofty neck with many a flow're small.
And now the hoary sage arose, and saw
The wanderer approaching: innocence
Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe
Depress'd his eye, and fear'd to give offence.
"Who art thou, courteous stranger? and from whence? Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale?'
'A shepherd-boy,' the youth replied; 'far hence
My habitation; hear my artless tale;
Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail.
'Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms,
I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound;
And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms,
Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound
(For in thy speech I recognize the sound).
You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost,
And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound,
Pondering on former days by guilt engross'd,
Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd.
'But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd,
Where knowledge opens and exalts the soul?
Where Fortune lavishes her gifts w earn'd
Can selfishness the liberal heart control?
Is glory there achieved by arts, as foul
As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan
Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl:
Love is the godlike attribute of man.
O teach a simple youth this mystery to scan.
'Or else the lamentable strain disclaim,
And give me back the calm, contented mind;
Which, late, exulting, view'd in Nature's frame
Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined,
Grace, grandeur, and utility combined.
Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still
Well pleased with all, but most with human kind:
When Fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will,
Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uninform'd of ill.'
• Wouldst thou,' the sage replied, 'in peace return
To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth,
Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn,
From every gentle ear the dreadful truth:
For if my desultory strain with ruth
And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow,
Alas! what comfort could thy anguish soothe,
Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know.
Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to
'But let untender thoughts afar be driven; Nor venture to arraign the dread decree. For know, to man, as candidate for heaven,
The voice of the Eternal said, Be free:
And this divine prerogative to thee
Does virtue, happiness, and Heaven convey;
For virtue is the child of liberty,
And happiness of virtue; nor can they
Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray.
Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief,
Which else might thy young virtue overpower,
And in thy converse I shall find relief
When the dark shades of melancholy lower;
For solitude has many a dreary hour,
Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain:
Come often, then; for, haply, in my bower
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou may'st gain:
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain.'
And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze
The Muse of History unrols her page.
But few, alas! the scenes her art displays
To charm his fancy, or his heart engage.
Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage,
And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn:
Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage,
But lo, ere long, is left alone to mourn,
And languish in the dust, and clasp th'abandon'd urn!
'Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, Where ruin's gulf unfathom'd yawns beneath! Shall life, shall liberty be lost,' he said,
'For the vain toys that pomp and power bequeath!
The car of victory, the plume, the wreath,
Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave:
No note the clarion of renown can breathe,
T'alarm the long night of the lonely grave,
Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming
Ah, what avails it to have traced the springs, That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel! Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings,
Hands drench'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel !
To those, whom Nature taught to think and feel,
Heroes, alas! a e things of small concern;
Could History man's secret heart reveal,
And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn,
Her transcripts to explore what besom would not
This praise, O Cheronean sage,* is thine!
(Why should this praise to thee alone belong?)
All else from Nature's moral path decline,
Lured by the toys that captivate the throng;
To herd in cabinets and camps, among
Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride;
Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song,
How tyrant blood, o'er many a region wide,
Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tidə.
'O who of man the story will unfold, Ere victory and empire wrought annoy, In that elysian age (misnamed of gold),
The age of love, and innocence, and joy,
When all were great and free! man's sole employ To deck the bosom of his parent earth;
Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy; To aid the flow'ret's long-expected birth,
And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of
'Sweet were your shades, O ye primeval groves!
Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent,
Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves,
His eye still smiling, and his heart content.
Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labour went.
Nature supplied the wish she taught to crave.
None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent.
To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave:
No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave.
'But ah! the historic Muse has never dared
To pierce those hallow'd bowers: 'tis Fancy's beam
Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptured bard,
That paints the charms of that delicious theme.
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