And to the world’s tumultuous stage,

Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?

Warton

At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portray’d with many a holy deed Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.

Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff and amice grey, And to the world’s tumultuous stage, Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?