INSCRIPTION Under an OAK, Here Traveller! pause awhile. This ancient Oak Or should the sudden shower be falling fast, More gratefully thy philosophic nose, Than what the unprofitable violet Wastes on the wandering wind. Nor wilt thou want Such music as benevolence will love, For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall Abundant, and the swine that grub around, Shaking with restless pleasure their brief tails THEODERIT. The HERMIT BOY. By A. S. COTTLE. A forest's deep gloom was the noiseless retreat Of a sage whose tired heart could in unison beat, Long time here they lived, in this desolate nook, Forgotten their woes as a dream; Green herbs were their food, and their drink the clear brook, That by their lone cot its meandering took; Their bed was the flag of the stream. Heaven sent them a boy, only pledge of their love, But denied him a mother to know; "Twas her last fondest wish that her infant might prove Seclusion's sure blessings, nor ever remove To a world of temptation and woe. Death came and beneath the tall grass was she laid, That waved by the side of the cot. Here the good man his visits at morn and eve paid, To his wife's last injunction the father long true, His son, now a youth, thought no other but two, And the world was compris'd in a wood. They roved thro' the thickets and glades all the day, At noon, as it droop'd on the heath that was nigh, The sage mark'd the violet and said, Just so when the sun of prosperity's high, Does virtue first blossom, then wither and die, For want of obscurity's shade. But see, cried the youth, yon grey Alder beneath, One, beauteous in hue and in form; Yet it can't be compared with the flower on the heath, For it scents not the air with its odorous breath, Tho' defended from sunshine and storm. The father stood musing in conscious surprise, Yet trembled for fear of the doubtful disguise, But my boy still in secret, he cried, will I try, Where the phantoms of pleasure dance thick to the eye, Still this wide-spreading wood shall protection afford, From man, vile associate man! Kind nature still cater our homely-spread board; Still for winter the fruits of rich Autumn we'll hoard; And the brook shall replenish our can. |