Inscription For An Oak Seat On The Summit Of A Hill Poem by Robert Anderson

Stop, gentle traveller, on this rude Seat,
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
And in each page thou'lt find a sweet reward.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God, by murmuring at his will;
But let religion ever be thy guide.
Remember what thou art; what thou must be;
How life's dull path is short, o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art on eternity's dread brink--
Eternity!--Ah! word but little weigh'd!

Now turn thine eye, yon mansion gay behold,
Its parks, its pleasure grounds, diverted streams,
Lakes, woods umbrageous, temples, and cascades,
Where art with nature almost dares to vie;
And if thou envy'st its proud pamper'd lord,
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend afar;
Check the vain thought. Know wealth is rapt in cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!

If fortune's favours, traveller, thou canst boast,
Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n;
Nor loiter here: time's ever on the wing!
Yet should thy panting bosom rest require,
Let what thine eye behold'st lead thee to Heav'n!

This Seat, thy wearied body that supports,
Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride;
It was the raven's cradle, rock'd by storms,
Where oft they tasted aldermanic bliss,
And caw'd, delighted, o'er an unfledg'd brood;
While many an humbler tree, and fragrant shrub,
And tender flow'r, emblem of innocence,
Its thick--wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast.
Oft too, the hind, to shun the fervid glow
Of Summer's noon--tide sun, has sought its shade;
Pleas'd with wild warblings from its topmost boughs,
While o'er his scanty meal, in peace reclin'd,
He envy'd no one. Now, time--rent, and fall'n,
Lo! its decay bespeaks the fate of man,
Fair lord of the creation, frail and vain!

If pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head,
One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And faded leaves that quiv'ring float around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home!

Now deign to view yon cottage in the vale,
Where late content beam'd in each ruddy face;
See'st thou the ruins?--Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In sons, who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
One hope they have, the hope that virtue gives,
It leaves the poor man never: Heav'n's reward,
To suff'ring mortals, in this vale of tears.

If thy young heart hath not yet felt a pang,
For those thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go! ``Learn the luxury of doing good;''
But, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom pleasure thou hast long pursu'd;
And self predominates o'er others' wrongs,
Hence, sluggard!--Know thou art not welcome here!