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 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
258
Father Francis's Prayer.
Written in Lord Westmorland's Hermitage.
Ne gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne such like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r;
But such aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then cast, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And bless from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;
The gravely dull, and pertly gay,
Oh banish these; and by my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne such like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r;
But such aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then cast, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And bless from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;
259
Oh banish these; and by my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.
An Inscription on the Cell.
Beneath these moss-grown roots, this rustick cell,Truth, Liberty, Content, sequester'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boast so fair a train?
An Inscription in the Cell.
Sweet bird that sing'st on yonder spray,Pursue unharm'd thy sylvan lay;
While I beneath this breezy shade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur'd song,
Instruct the world-enamour'd throng,
That the contented harmless breast
In solitude itself is blest.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |