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!

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.