WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulg'd this tender theme:

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd,
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:

Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,

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To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,
Leans on her ivied shrine.

"How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair? Thy heavenly smile how win?

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within?

O, wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing?

Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind
With dreams of former days,
When, in the lap of Peace reclin'd,
He fram'd his infant lays;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarm'd,
Nor Envy with malignant glare
His simple youth had harm'd.

"'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere, and warm, and frec,

Devoted to the shade.

Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy?-
O, take the Wanderer home!

"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream ;—
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray

Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,

And balmy, from the bank of flowers,
The zephyr breathes along;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car
Flash on the startled eye.

"But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains his heart below.

"For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread;

No more I climb those toilsome heights,
By guileful Hope misled:

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,

And all the past is vain."

(Since which I number threescore winters past,)
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore,
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.

It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act

Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a bauble once-a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss,
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!

Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod, Swelling with vegetative force instinct,

Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins,