Ar 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 the mountain reclined,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began:
Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd;
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

THE HERMIT.

"Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe? Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, oh! cease not thy lay;

Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to mourn: Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away; Full quickly they pass-but they never return!

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

The moon, half-extinct, a dim crescent displays;
But lately I mark'd, when, majestic on high,

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again:
But man's faded glory no change shall renew ;-
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn;

Kind Nature the embryo blossom shall save:

But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?

Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?"

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,