Then false and foul world, and unknown
Even to thy own,
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou canst say is thine.
Thou art not Truth! for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lyes.
Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policie;
Which, like a viper lodged in flowers,
Its venom through that sweetness pours;
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fading paint, the short-lived bliss
Of air and humour, out and in,
Like colors in a dolphin's skin;
But must not live beyond one day,
Or for convenience, then away.
Thou art not Riches! for that trash,
Which one age hoards, the next doth wash,
And so severely sweep away,
That few remember where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them have at their command;
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down what they banked before.
Thou art not Honour! for those gay
Feathers will wear and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Give new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose,
Which, if not cropt, will quickly shed,
But soon as 'cropt grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,
And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
And, swallow like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone.
Welcome, pure thoughts and peaceful hours,
Enriched with sunshine and with showers!
Welcome fair hopes and holy cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business, the sure road
Unto my last and loved abode !
O supreme Bliss !
The circle, center, and abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that path which leads to thee,
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see, all the long day,
The noise and pomp of the "broad way."
I note their coarse and proud approaches,
Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.
But, in the "narrow way" to thee,
I observe only poverty,
And despised things; and, all along,
The ragged, mean, and humble throng
Are still on foot; and, as they go,
They sigh, and say their Lord went so!
Give me my staff, then, as it stood
When green and growing in the wood.
The stones, which for the altar served,
Might not be smoothed nor finely carved.
With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,
As Jacob did; and thy dear word,
As thou hast dressed it, not as wit
And depraved tastes have poison'd it,
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else shall thy servant eat.
Thus, thus, and in no other sort,
Will I set forth, though laughed at for't;
And, leaving the wise world their way,
Go through, though judged to go astray.
FROM fruitful beds and flowery borders,
Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders,
Where state grasps more than plain truth needs,
And wholesome herbs are starved by weeds,
To the wild woods I will be gone,
And the coarse meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are missed,
Both in the rulers and the priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the poor like bread;
While factious heads, with open coile
And force, first make, then share, the spoile;
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the desart grows the rose.
Haile, chrystal fountaines and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades,
No busie worldling hunts away
The sad retirer all the day!
Haile, happy, harmless solitude!
Our sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world; the calm recess
Of faith, and hope, and holiness!
Here something still like Eden looks;
Honey in woods, juleps in brooks;
And flowers, whose rich, unrifled sweets
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,
When the toyls of the day are done,
And the tired world sets with the sun.
Here flying winds and flowing wells
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells;
Their busie murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite;
And with an awful sound arrest,
And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush.
Herbs strait get up; flowers peep and spread;
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head;
Birds, from the shades of night released,
Look round about, then quit the nest,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their, joyes;
Then prays that all the world might be
Blest with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade,
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend ;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.
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