SOLITUDE.
63
The aged pilgrim sits him down to traceSome dream of early life, some infant grace,And oft his bosom heave unbidden sighsO'er the sad wreck of friendship's severed ties.
And is there here no blest Elysian grove,Whose golden branches shield the fruits of love?Are all the scenes, which vigorous genius frames,But vain illusions, and ideal names?Pants but the soul for higher joys to throwOn human ills a visionary woe?Let narrow prudence boast its groveling art,To chill the generous sympathies of heart,Teach to subdue each thought sublimely wild,And crush, like Herod, fancy's newborn child;The cultured mind, which active sense inspires,For nobler flights shall trim its slumbering fires,From airy dreams, tho weaved in fiction's loom,Point virtue's triumph o'er the closing tomb,
