AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain, reclin'd,
An Hermit his nightly complaint thus began,
Tho' mournful his voice, his heart was resign'd,
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.