Classic Poem

A WEARY Trav'ller, who trac'd a wild
Where miry paths his footsteps oft beguil'd,
At a lone heath arriv'd, when silent night,
Thro' Heav'n prevailing, shut the gates of light;
Not less bewilder'd, hopeless here he strays,
Where void of trees appears a fearful maze.
How happy now could he some cottage find,
A timely shelter from the piercing wind,
That bleak blew round him, while expos'd he rov'd
Far from his home, and all the friends he lov'd.
While thus he pass'd, a glimm'ring flame he spy'd,
And fondly took it for a faithful guide:
O'er the rough heath, o'er moorlands swift it flies,
Sometimes eludes and sometimes glads his eyes;
But yet he follows, tho' tis all in vain,
Toil still augments, and pain succeeds to pain:
For thro' the lowlands by this light he bends,
Unknowing whither each sad footstep tends,
'Till, sinking with fatigue and care, at length,
His mind o'erpower'd, exhausted all his strength,
At distance he beholds the flatt'ring fire,
Offspring of damps, in marshes faint expire,
Himself on a morass now enter'd far,
To quit in safety is his only care,
To Heav'n he therefore bends in humble pray'r.
Favour'd, while struggling in the mire, at last,
A friendly swain, who saw him as he pass'd,
His pity and humanity display'd,
And lent him in distress his useful aid,
Sincere compassion from his heart express'd,
And to his homely dwelling led his guest:
Refreshment here he found, and wish'd repose,
And, fresh with vigour, in the morn arose;
Now warn'd, resolv'd deluding fires to shun,
Nor be by misplac'd confidence undone.