Джордж Крэбб (George Crabbe)

Solitude

  [September, 1772.]

  Free from envy, strife and sorrow,
    Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears;
  Free from thoughts of what to-morrow
    May o'er-charge the soul with cares--

  Live I in a peaceful valley,
    By a neighbouring lonely wood;
  Giving way to melancholy,
    (Joy, when better understood).

  Near me ancient ruins falling
    From a worn-out castle's brow;
  Once the greatest [chiefs] installing,
    Where are all their honours now?

  Here in midnight's gloomy terror
    I enjoy the silent night;
  Darkness shews the soul her error,
    Darkness leads to inward light.

  Here I walk in meditation,
    Pond'ring all sublunar things,
  From the silent soft persuasion,
    Which from virtue's basis springs.

  What, says truth, are pomp and riches?
    Guilded baits to folly lent;
  Honour, which the soul bewitches,
    When obtain'd, we may repent.

  By me plays the stream meand'ring
    Slowly, as its waters glide;
  And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring,
    Lulls to downy rest my pride.

  Silent as the gloomy graves are
    Now the mansions once so loud;
  Still and quiet as the brave, or
    All the horrors of a croud.

  This was once the seat of plunder,
    Blood of heroes stain'd the floor;
  Heroes, nature's pride and wonder,
    Heroes heard of now no more.

  Owls and ravens haunt the buildings,
    Sending gloomy dread to all;
  Yellow moss the summit yielding,
    Pellitory decks the wall.

  Time with rapid speed still wanders,
    Journies on an even pace;
  Fame of greatest actions squanders,
    But perpetuates disgrace.

  Sigh not then for pomp or glory;
    What avails a heroe's name?
  Future times may tell your story,
    To your then disgrace and shame.

  Chuse some humble cot as this is,
    In sweet philosophic ease;
  With dame Nature's frugal blisses
    Live in joy, and die in peace.

          G. EBBARE.

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