POEMS

ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

RETIREMENT.

1758.

WHEN, in the crimson cloud of Even, The lingering light decays,

And Hesper, on the front of heaven,

His glittering gem displays;

Deep in the silent vale, unseen,

Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,

Indulged this tender theme.

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled,
High o'er the glimmering dale;

Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale;

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,

Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequestered bower,

Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,

Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

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

With dreams of former days,

When, in the lap of Peace reclined,

He framed his infant lays;

When Fancy roved at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarmed,

Nor Envy, with malignant glare,

His simple youth had harmed.

'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
Waves o'er the gloomy stream,

Whence the scared owl, on pinions grey,

Breaks from the rustling boughs,

And down the lone vale sails away,

To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,

And, balmy, from the bank of flowers,

The zephyr breathes along;

Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,

No ray, from Grandeur's gilded car,
Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim, through the glade,

Thy hallowed bowers explore,

O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore!

For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly woe;

And triumph o'er the mighty spell,

That chains this heart below.

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.

K