Chapter 19: XVII

XVII At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portray’d with many a holy deed Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff and amice grey, And to the world’s tumultuous stage, Prefer the peaceful Hermitage? Warton Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial hermit, with which his guest willing…