' THE HERMIT. TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale 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, To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies '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; Soft as the dew from heaven descends, Far in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press'd and smil'd; But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the Hermit spied, From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things, And what is friendship but a name, A shade that follows wealth or fame, 'And love is still an emptier sound, 'For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows bush, Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, And, Ah, forgive a stranger rude, '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, And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, To win me from his tender arms, Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; 'In humble, simplest habit clad, The blossom opening to the day, 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, 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, |