lines written in friars'-carse hermitage

glenriddel hermitage, june 28th, 1788.

thou whom chance may hither lead,

be thou d in russet weed,

be thou deckt in silken stole,

grave these maxims on thy soul.

life is but a day at most,

sprung from night, in darkness lost:

hope not sunshine every hour,

fear not clouds will always lour.

happiness is but a name,

make content and ease thy aim,

ambition is a meteor-gleam;

fame, an idle restless dream;

peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring;

pleasures, insects on the wing;

those that sip the dew alone—

make the butterflies thy own;