Classic Poem

HAIL Solitude ! thou friend to virtue, hail !
To me thy blissful presence oft reveal,
Lest worldly scenes my foolish heart ensnare,
And all my hopes of bliss be lost in air !
The noblest heroes e'er the sun survey'd,
With joy approach'd thy venerable shade ;
And far from wishing for the toys of state
Or mean amusements of the vulgar great ,
Possess'd their minds in philosophic ease,
Till nature fix'd a period to their days ;
Then void of fear, each anxious thought supprest,
They gain'd, with joy, the land of endless rest.

 When Cynthia , peerless regent of the night,
Ascends her polish'd car divinely bright ;
Often, with care opprest, I pensive stray,
Where Schuylkill winds his solitary way ;
Beneath some mountain's wild romantic brow,
Whose pendent cliffs alarm the flood below,
I lay me down—t'indulge the solemn hour,
And yield myself to contemplation's pow'r ;
I feel the goddess rouse my slumb'ring soul,
And all my vain and wand'ring thoughts control;
I seem to breathe on consecrated ground,
And wisdom speaks in ev'ry object round ;
Each scene delights—the breeze that gently roves,
In hollow murmurs thro' th' illumin'd groves,
The moon-light dancing down the trembling stream,
Or darting thro' the trees with fainter gleam—
These and a thousand charms, alternate rise,
To wake sweet musing , and to feast the eyes !

 And hark ! from yon tall mountain's cloud-wrapt brow,
What notes majestic hither seem to flow !
Angelic voices, lutes melodious, join,
To praise the maker of this frame divine—
With voice distinct, they say, or seem to say,
“Who gave yon glorious orbs their bright array ?
“What careful hand their golden lamps supplies,
“Or marks their courses thro' yon azure skies ?
“What wond'rous pow'r, amid the pathless plain,
“Prevents confusion in their sparkling train?
“'Tis G OD alone ”—the heavenly chorus sings—
“'Tis G OD alone ”—the wide empyrean rings—

 If heavenly hosts with such devotion burn,
What equal honours can frail man return ?
Yet, wake my soul, prepare the grateful lay,
In emulation of those sons of day ;
Whose glorious bands, unseen by mortal eye,
Visit this earth, or hover in the sky ;
For saints expiring, tune the silver lyre,
And thro' their doubting souls sweet confidence inspire.

 Hail ! all-improving sacred solitude !
Thou best companion of the wise and good !
Why should vain man from thy blest presence run,
And all self-converse , with such caution, shun ?
Can sensual pleasures so o'erwhelm the mind
As not to leave one trace of thought behind ?
Alas ! they can—and hence, that strange delight
In all that's wicked, empty, vain and light.
Thy faithful mirror no false charms bestows,
But, in just colours, each affection shows
If pure the mind, new transports seize the breast,
And give a foretaste of celestial rest ;
But if foul vice should in the glass appear,
The conscious heart is fill'd with black despair.