lines written in friars'-carse hermitage
glenriddel hermitage, june 28th, 1788.
thou whom chance may hither lead,
be thou clad in russet weed,
be thou deckt in silken stole,
grave these maxims on thy soul.
life is but a day at most,
sprung from night, in darkness lost:
hope not sunshine every hour,
fear not clouds will always lour.
happiness is but a name,
make content and ease thy aim,
ambition is a meteor-gleam;
fame, an idle restless dream;
peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring;
pleasures, insects on the wing;
those that sip the dew alone—