WHEN in the crimson cloud of even, "Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd, Where Melancholy strays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep: "To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, "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? "Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind Nor Envy with malignant glare His simple youth had harm'd. ""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! "Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine "O, while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling song, And balmy, from the bank of flowers, Let no rude sound invade from far, No ray from Grandeur's gilded car But if some pilgrim through the glade O guard from harm his hoary head, For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, "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." (Since which I number threescore winters past,) With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, It seems idolatry with some excuse, Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Thou wast a bauble once-a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod, |