THE
HERMIT.
Yet, O my ſoul, thy riſing murmurs ſtay,
Nor dare th' all-wife Diſpoſer to arraign,
Or againſt his ſupreme decree
With impious grief complain.
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view
From youth to age a rev'rend ⟨Hermit⟩ grew;
The moſs his bed, the cave his humble ⟨cell⟩
His food the fruits, his drink the ⟨chryſtal⟩ well:
Remote from man, with God he paſs’d ⟨his⟩ days,
Pray'r all his bus’neſs, all his pleaſure ⟨praiſe⟩
A life ſo ſacred, ſuch ſerene ſepoſe,
Seem'd heav'n itſelſ, 'till one ſuggeſtion ⟨roſe⟩
That vice ſhould triumph, virtue vice ⟨obey⟩
This ſprung ſome doubt of providence's ſway
His hopes no more a certain proſpect boaſt
And all the tenure of his ſoul is loſt.
So, when a ſmooth expanſe receives ⟨impreſt,⟩
Calm nature's image on its wat’ry breaſt,
