Father FRANCIS'S Prayer. Written in Lord WESTMORLAND'S Hermitage.

Father FRANCIS'S Prayer.

Written in Lord WESTMORLAND'S Hermitage.

NE gay attire, ne marble hall, Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall; Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board, Bestow'd with pypes'of perigord; Ne power, ne such like idle fancies, Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis; Let me ne more myself deceive; Ne more regret the toys I leave; The world I quit, the proud, the vain, Corruption's and Ambition's train; But not the good, perdie nor fair, 'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r; But such aye welcome to my cell, And oft, not always, with me dwell; Then cast, sweet Saint, a circle round, And bless from fools this holy ground; From all the foes to worth and truth, From wanton old, and homely youth; The gravely dull, and pertly gay, Oh banish these; and by my fay, Right well I ween that in this age, Mine house shall prove an hermitage.

An Inscription on the Cell.

Beneath these moss-grown roots, this rustick cell, Truth, Liberty, Content, sequester'd dwell; Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain, What drawing-room can boast so fair a train?

An Inscription in the Cell.

Sweet bird that sing'st on yonder spray, Pursue unharm'd thy sylvan lay; While I beneath this breezy shade, In peace repose my careless head; And joining thy enraptur'd song, Instruct the world-enamour'd throng, That the contented harmless breast In solitude itself is blest.