"In coming down, the seeing eye of day
Darken'd around me, and I lost my way.
Where'er a light shot glimmering through the trees,
I thither urg'd my weary trembling knees,
Tapp'd at the door, and begg'd, in piteous tone,
They'd let a wandering soldier find his home;
They barr'd the door, and bade me beg elsewhere,
They'd no spare beds for vagabonds to share.
This was the tale where'er I made a halt,
And greater houses grew upon the fault;
The dog was loos'd to keep me far at bay,
And saucy footmen bade me walk away,
Or else a constable should find a home
For wandering captains from the wars new come.
Alas! thought I, is this the soldier's praise
For loss of health, of limb, and length of days?
And is this England? — England, my delight!
For whom I thought it glory but to fight —
That has no covert for the soldier's night!
I turn'd half fainting, led through all the gloom
By the faint glimmerings of the clouded moon.
One path I kept, that seem'd at times to end,
And oft refus'd the guiding clew to lend;
The thread unhop'd as oft again I found,
Till it forsook the open fields around;
By slow degrees, to towering woods it crept,
As if beneath their shade it nightly slept.
I here had halted, lest some beasts of prey,
In midnight theft, had pac'd the treacherous way,
But that a twinkling light sometimes appear'd,
Sometimes grew dim, and sometimes brightly clear'd
This could not be the lure of beasts of prey;
They know no art of imitating day,
Much pleas'd I thought. The mazy path yet led
Through shrubby copse, by taller trees o'erspread;
A wimpling rill ran on, and wreath'd its way
Through tufts of flowers, that made its borders gay;
And now a rock the parting leaves unfold,
On which a withering oak had long grown old,
The curling ivy oft attempts to hide
Its sad decay, with robes of verdant pride,
Yet through her leafy garb the eye can peer,
And see it buys the youthful dress too dear.
A hollow cavern now methought I spied,
Where clustering grapes came wandering down its side,
Between whose leaves a ray of light would dart,
That both rejoic'd and terrified my heart.
I ventur'd in, — my breath I scarcely drew,
Nought save a taper met my wondering view;
An inner cavern beamed with fuller light,
And gave a holy hermit to my sight;
Himself and Piety seem'd but the same,
And Wisdom for grey hairs another name;
Some traces yet of sorrow might be found,
That o'er his features walk'd their pensive round;
Devotion seem'd to bid them not to stray,
But human feelings gave the wanderers way.
His eye he rais'd from the instructive page,
An eye more sunk by wearing grief than age;
Surprise a moment o'er his features spread,
And gave them back their once accustom'd red."
"Welcome my son — a hermit's welcome share,
And let the welcome mend the scanty fare.
A soldier's toils the softest couch requires,
The strengthening food, and renovating fires;
Not such the hermit's needy cell bestows,
Pamper'd alone by luxury of woes,
The falling tears bedew the crusty bread,
And the moss pillow props the weary head;
The limpid brook the heats of thirst allay,
And gather'd fruits the toilsome search repay;
When hunger calls, these are a feastful store,
And languid Sorrow asks for nothing more;
Sufficient that her eye unseen can weep,
Stream while awake, and flow yet more in sleep.
'Tis now twelve years since Solitude first drew
Her closing curtain round my opening view,
Since first I left my once delightful home,
Along with Grief and Solitude to roam."