Fable XX. the Angel and Hermit

A STATESMAN who, as records tell, Could vie in fame with MACHIAVEL, Had serv'd his country sev'ral years With able head, in diff'rent spheres, And, strange to tell! had play'd his part, Ev'n Envy own'd, with honest heart; Tho' sometimes stung with partial blame To cramp, if not to taint his fame; A certain, tho' a cruel case— Sad consequence, and tax of place.

At length, impatient of the weight Which hangs on those who guide a state; His mind its secret wishes bent In solitude to seek content.

Soon as Reflection had inspir'd The pleasing prospect, he retir'd; Fix'd on a lonely rural spot, And chang'd his palace, for a cot; His levees for th' illustrious dead, Whom in their living works he read; All equipage was drop'd of course, Or shrunk into a single horse; On whom he rode for sake of health, Which Wisdom owns the richest wealth.

Art had not, with affected grace, Deform'd this native, lovely place; Where variegated prospects grew Successively to charm the view; Where Nature thro' the landscape smil'd, A picture beautifully wild; Where Study found a still retreat And Virtue seem'd to fix her seat.

One day reclining in a shade, By overspreading poplars made, Dispos'd, at large, to ruminate, Our voluntary HERMIT sate, And safe he thought from list'ning ear, Thus prais'd his calm, contented sphere.

Hail a sequester'd state—all hail— On wood-crown'd hill, or flow'ry vale; Where mind and body both advance Their faculties, by temperance; Where smiling Health around us sails, Enbosom'd in refreshing gales; Where FACTION with discordant voice, No more can interrupt my joys; Where ENVY with her pois'nous tongue, No more can taint my fame with wrong; Where smiling, fair-fac'd, heartless friends, No more will haunt for selfish ends; Where Treach'ry, darkest fiend of Hell, Will never seek my humble cell; Thrice happy thou sequester'd state; Who but the frantic would be great?

How mean to be AMBITION'S slave! Ambition, Virtue's certain grave; How many years of toilsome life, Imbitter'd by continual strife, Tho' with unbounded honours grac'd, Have I, unthinking, run to waste?

Oh welcome then the calmer reign Of sage reflection; with her train Of rational, and mild delights; With healthful days, and peaceful nights; Which, solitude, thy charms declare, Untainted by corroding care.

Let vain idolaters of Fame Pay homage to a sounding name; Let them enjoy the smiles of things, With titles, stars, and silken strings; Let Soldiers tread the martial field, And teach their vanquish'd foes to yield; Let them possess the savage joy, Like raging tempests, to destroy; Let Merchants toil from coast to coast, In search of what they worship most; And brave all perils of the main, In search of thee—most pow'rful Gain! Let Lawyers wrangle—Statesmen scheme, The fabric of a golden dream; My part in bustling scenes is o'er, And Fortune can afflict no more.

Thrice happy, then, sequester'd state, Who but the frantic would be great?

Here as he ended—from a cloud, Which serv'd him for a silver shroud, A light-encircled ANGEL came, Who hail'd the HERMIT by his name; Then said; I've heard thy full pretence To solitude, and abstract sense; Which shows no more in Reason's eye, Than unsubstantial sophistry. If man is form'd of social kind, The duties of his station bind To play an active part in life, Howe'er perplex'd with cares and strife; Withdrawing to inglorious rest, Is indolence, or fear, at best; A profitless, and mean escape, Unworthy of the human shape.

'Tis own'd that crowns are painful things, That care may haunt the best of Kings; Yet making many millions blest, Must calm the mind, and give it rest; Can any feel such joy of heart, As they who act a Patriot part? There lies the worth of being great, And true pre-eminence of state.

In solitude you seem to say, That VIRTUE rules with settled sway; But know that passions in restraint, Amidst temptations, form the saint.

A sot, if unsupplied with wine, Must drunkenness perforce resign; A thief, by locks and bars shut out, May boast of honesty, no doubt; Yet characters like these, I trust, Are neither sober deem'd, nor just.

Suppose your worth, and what more hard, Had fail'd to meet a just reward; That errors of capricious pow'r, Darken'd your well-devoted hour; Suppose thro' hate, or want of sense, Some schemes were cross'd, on false pretence; Should Reason give resentment scope, Creating thence a misanthrope? Of ev'ry Vice which man has tried, None's worse than overbearing PRIDE.

Accustom'd to direct her helm, Why should you leave your native realm? In danger to be tempest-tost, Perhaps, her pilot wanting, lost.

With love of rural ease inspir'd, If like the ROMAN you retir'd; Prepar'd with patriot Love to stand, The bulwark of your native land; So far, with Reason on your side, Retirement might be justified; Yet those whose talents most excel, Should study most the public weal: No meaner wretch can Nature own, Than he who lives for SELF alone.