To a Friend
HOW steep yon mountains rise around,
How bold yon gloomy woods ascend!
How loud the rushing torrents sound
That midst these heaps of ruin bend,
Where one arch'd gateway yet remains,
And one long aisle its roof retains,
And one tall turret's walls impend!
Here once a self-sequester'd train
Renounc'd life's tempting pomp and glare;
Rejected pow'r, relinquish'd gain,
And shun'd the great, and shun'd the fair:
The voluntary slaves of toil,
By day they till'd their little soil,
By night they woke, and rose to prayer.
Though Superstition much we blame,
That bade them thus consume their years;
Their motive still our praise must claim,
Their constancy our thought reveres:
And sure their solitary scheme
Must check each passion's wild extreme,
And save them cares, and save them fears.
Their convent's round contain'd their all;
Their minds no sad presage oppress'd,
What fate might absent wealth befall,
How absent friends might be distress'd:
Domestic ills ne'er hurt their ease;
They nought of pain could feel from these,
Who no domestic joys possess'd.
But imperfection haunts each place:
Would this kind calm atone to thee
For Fame's or Fortune's sprightly chase,
Whose prize in prospect still we see;
Or Hymen's happy moments bless'd,
With Beauty leaning on thy breast,
Or childhood prattling at thy knee?
--John Scott of Amwell
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