5 A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamelled bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, And hear how prettily they talk.
6 Ah! wretched, and too solitary he, Who loves not his own company! He'll feel the weight of it many a day, Unless he calls in sin or vanity To help to bear it away.
7 O Solitude! first state of humankind! Which bless'd remained till man did find Even his own helper's company: As soon as two, alas! together joined, The serpent made up three.
8 Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude! alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree Sprang from the trunk of one;
9 Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Dost break and tame the unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace, Making it move, well managed by thy art, With swiftness and with grace.
10 Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light Dost, like a burning glass, unite, Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget.
11 Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see The monster London laugh at me; I should at thee, too, foolish city! If it were fit to laugh at misery; But thy estate I pity.
12 Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so, Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost.
Lest the misjudging world should chance to say I durst not but in secret murmurs pray, To whisper in Jove's ear How much I wish that funeral, Or gape at such a great one's fall; This let all ages hear, And future times in my soul's picture see What I abhor, what I desire to be.
I would not be a Puritan, though he Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be But half a quarter long; Though from his old mechanic trade By vision he's a pastor made, His faith was grown so strong; Nay, though he think to gain salvation By calling the Pope the Whore of Babylon.
I would not be a Schoolmaster, though to him His rods no less than Consuls' fasces seem; Though he in many a place, Turns Lily oftener than his gowns, Till at the last he makes the nouns Fight with the verbs apace; Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat, Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.