THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.*
HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old),
A man once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finished his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill,
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reached it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs—
* Poems, Ed. 1794, vol. II. p. 355.
And "Hence," he said, "my mind computes 25
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it decked with every hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades,
The glow that Fancy gave it fades;
And, earned too late, it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase."
"True," answered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
"But whether all the time it cost,
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that which called his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curse;
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well designed;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late."
HE greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat
Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang, as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never missed.
But Nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppressed ;+
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
open windows seemed to invite The freeman to a farewell flight;
* Poems, Ed. 1794, vol. 11. p. 359.
† All the Editions from 1794 to 1806 read "Instinct is never quite suppress'd." The alteration appears in the Eds. 1808, 1810, 1812, 1817, and has been universally adopted. In the 16th line, "which" was altered to" that," at the same time.
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say
You must not live alone-
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Returned him to his own. *
O ye, who never taste† the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush when I tell you how a bird
A prison with a friend preferred
To Liberty without.
This stanza originally stood thus:
For, settling on his grated roof,
He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof
That he desired no more;
Nor would forsake his cage at last,
Till gently seiz'd, I shut him fast,
A prisoner as before.
The change is found in Ed. 1808.
† Originally "knew,” altered in Ed. 1808.
HERE is a field, through which I often
Thick overspread with moss and silky
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, 5
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scooped, I judge, in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; 20 Nor Autumn yet had brushed from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
* Poems, Ed. 1794, vol. 1. p. 365.
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