Classic Poem

How many souls of strongest powers
To selfish solitude consign'd,
Have whil'd in idleness their hours,
Nor nobly sought to serve mankind!

Them, nor a widow'd nation's cries,
Nor blood of freedom largely shed,
Nor saintly martyr's dying sighs,
From their false dream of quiet led.

Listless beneath o'er-arching trees,
They watch'd the birds attune their song,
Or gather'd music from the breeze,
Or mark'd the streamlet glide along.

But not to such the Muse may give
The wreath that stirs a Patriot's pride;
Since for themselves content to live,
So for themselves alone they died.

Happy the man who for his God
Has left the world and all its ways,
To tread the path that Saints have trod,
And spend his life in prayer and praise:

Unhappy, who himself to please
Forsakes the path where duty lies,
Either in love of selfish ease,
Or in contempt of human ties.

In vain have they the world resign'd
Who only seek an earthly rest;
Nor to the soul that spurns mankind
Can even solitude be blest.