Then turn’d he from his devious path,
(A path with many a thorn bestrew’d)
From passions wild, and cares that scath,
And sought this silent solitude.
“Frail flowers (he cried) forbear your strife,
Why should the charms that nature gave,
To bless your fleeting space of life,
That space, of mild content bereave?
“Let neither to the palm aspire,
To each a share of praise is due,