CHAPTER 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 willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp to harmony.
“Methinks, holy father,” said he, “the instrument wants one string, and the rest have been somewhat misused.”
“Ay, mark’st thou that?” replied the hermit; “that shows thee a master of the craft. Wine and wassail,” he added, gravely casting up his eyes—“all the fault of wine
