Oh! how must thou lament thy station,

And envy mine!

Inscription in an Hermitage

Whoe’er thou art these lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding I joy my lonely days to lead in This desert drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours: Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers; For well I saw in halls and towers That lust and pride, The arch-fiend’s dearest darkest powers, In state preside.