Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

'

THE HERMIT.

TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go.'

Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries,

[ocr errors]

To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn :

Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them:

'But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure,

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguil❜d.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart,
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
And,' Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,
'The sorrows of thy breast?

From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay:

And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.

And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?

'And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

'For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows bush,
And spurn the sex,' he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

And, Ah, forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried;
'Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.

'But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

'My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

'In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.

Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret where he died.

« AnteriorContinuar »