“Let me, oh! Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, or loose desire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire, ‘To God I fly’!”

Stranger, if full of youth and riot As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at The hermit’s prayer: But if thou hast a cause to sigh at Thy fault, or care;

If thou hast known false love’s vexation, Or hast been exil’d from thy nation, Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, And makes thee pine, Oh! how must thou lament thy station, And envy mine!