374 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
Where, 'neath the dusty, gUmmering beams, That slanting float in hazy streams. Built round with books, the hoary sage Sits poring o'er his musty page. Shut in some antique hermitage.
Nor less cheer yon poor wretch, whose unschooled thought
By Art or Science' tongue was never taught ;
Who, tired and worn with ceaseless toil.
No longer ploughs the fallow soil,
But by the chimney corner sits,
And sleeps, and wakes, and sighs, by fits.
Come to that lonely one in gay attire,
Sweeten his cup, enliven his dull fire,
Teach him how, loosed from inward strife,
He may spin out the hours of life
To a long autumn of content.
Till Death, on fatal errand sent.
Shall deem Fate hath misread the hour.
And, loath to spoil so fresh a flower.
Even turn his back upon the door.
Resolved to wait some ten years more.
Visit the prisoners, who in dungeon damp Pine ceaseless ; trim for these Hope's dying lamp ! Soothe yon sad son of trade, who longs to flee From eating cares and lean anxiety : Cheer the desponding ; warn the too elate ; For poor and rich, the humble and the great. Need thee alike ! Nay, even the wise, forsooth ! Who scorns to fear, needs other friend than Truth, Would he enjoy in age the cheerful glow of youth.
��I, too, if in this vale of tears
I should wear out my fourscore years,
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