And, kneeling, lick'd the witherd hand that tied A wreathe of woodbine round his antlers tall.

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 recognise 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 unearn'd,
Can selfishness the liberal heart control?
Is glory there achiev'd by arts, as foul

As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan?
Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tygers 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 unconfin'd,
Grace, grandeur, and utility combin'd,

Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still
Well pleas'd with all, but most with human kind:
When Fancy roam'd thro' 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 sooth,
Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know.

Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to

woe.

"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 over-power,

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 liv'd 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 asswage,
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 gulph 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 trac'd 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! are 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 bosom would not yearn!

"This praise, O Cheronean sage,* is thine!
(Why should this praise to thee alone belong?)
All else from Nature's moral path decline,
Lur'd 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 tide.

"O who of man the story will unfold,
Ere victory and empire wrought annoy,
In that elysian age (misnam'd 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;

* Plutarch.