Sigh in the breeze, and in the streamlet flow:
There pale inaction pines his life away,
And satiate, curses the return of day;
There love, insatiate, rages wild with pain,
Endures the blast, or plunges in the main;
There superstition broods o’er all her fears
And yells of demons in the zephyr hears
He who a hermit is resolv’d to dwell,
And bids a social life a long farewell,
Is impious.