Ode to Solitude

Hail, pensive virgin! ever hail! Oft have I met thee in the vale, And oft inscrib'd a song to thee, When musing near yon aged tree: Nor serious, silent Solitude, Didst thou despise my numbers rude. Remote from man, in shady dell, Thou hears the loud funereal bell, Or from the thronged city far, At evening counts each little star; Or by the pale moon's silver light, O'er hill and forest takes thy flight. Sweet nun, who haunts the lonely lane, Teach me that life is short and vain, That grandeur, pageantry, and power, Will vanish all at death's dread hour, That beauty's roses soon decay, Like odoriferous flowers in May. Teach me to weep for others woe, O cause the tender tear to flow!

Fair woodland nymph! when all is still, Thou climbs the high adjacent hill, And oft, by Thames's rushy side, Delights to hear the smooth wave glide; Sister of peace and piety, Sweet nun, I long to visit thee.