CHAPTER III.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chaunt, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
•••••••
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice gray,
And to the world's, tumultuous stage,
Prefer the peaceful Hermitage.
Warton.
Notwithstanding the prescription of the
genial hermit, with which his guest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the
harp to harmony.
"Methinks, holy father," said he, "the instrument wants one string, and the rest have been somewhat misused."
"Ay, mark'st thou that?" replied the hermit; "that shews thee a master of the craft. Wine and wassel," he added, gravely, casting up