written in friar's-carse hermitage

on nithside

thou whom chance may hither lead,

be thou clad in russet weed,

be thou deckt in silken stole,

grave these counsels on thy soul.

life is but a day at most,

sprung from night,—in darkness lost;

hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,

fear not clouds will always lour.

as youth and love with sprightly dance,

beneath thy morning star advance,

pleasure with her siren air

may delude the thoughtless pair;

let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,

then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

as thy day grows warm and high,

life's meridian flaming nigh,

dost thou spurn the humble vale?

life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?

check thy climbing step, elate,

evils lurk in felon wait:

dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,

soar around each cliffy hold!

while cheerful peace, with linnet song,

chants the lowly dells among.

as the shades of ev'ning close,

beck'ning thee to long repose;

as life itself bes disease,