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And thus polluting honour in its source,
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call,
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
And all around distressful yells arise,
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
Still to ourselves in every place consigned.,
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,
"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
'Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
"No flocks that range the valley free,
"But from the mountain's grassy side
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
"Then, pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong : 'Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.''
Soft as the dew from Heaven descends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb❜ring poor
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
And now, when busy crowds retire
And spread his vegetable store,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth
But nothing could a charm impart
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast?