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And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smild; And skill'd in legendary lore
The ling'ring hours beguild.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's wo; For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,
With answ'ring care opprest : “ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,
“ 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 ; 6. And those who prize the paltry things,
. More trifling still are they.
« And what is friendship but a name;
« A charm that lulls to sleep; " A shade that follows wealth or fame,
6 But 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 hush,
6 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;
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
A maid in all her charms.
66 And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
“ A wretch forlorn,” she cry'd; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude " Where Heav'n and
« But let a maid thy pity share,
66 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; 6 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.
6 Each hour a mercenary crowd
« With richest proffers strove ; “ Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
6 But never talk'd of love.
« In humble simplest habit clad,
“ No wealth nor power had he ; « Wisdom and worth were all he had,
« But these were all to me.
« And when, beside me in the dale,
“ He carol'd lays of love, “ His breath lent fragrance to the gale
• And music to the grove *.
« The blossom opening to the day,
“ The dews of Heav'n refin'd 66 Could nought of purity display
“ To emulate his mind.
* This stanza, never before printed, was communicated by Richard Archdal, Esq. who received it from the Author himself.
XXXII. « The dew, the blossom on the tree,
“ With charms inconstant shine ; “ Their charms were his, but wo to me,
• Their constancy was mine.
« For still I try'd each fickle art,
« Importunate and vain ; « And while his passion touch'd my heart, “ I triumph'd in his pain.
XXXIV. 66 Till quite dejected with my scorn,
“ He left me to my pride ; “ And sought a solitude forlorn,
" In secret, where he dy'd.
“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
6 And well my life shall pay ; « I'll seek the solitude he sought,
« And stretch me where he lay.
" And there forlorn despairing hid,
“ I'll lay me down and die ; « 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
66 And so for him will I.”
6 Forbid it Heav'n !” the Hermit cry'd,
And clasp'd her to his breast : The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
66. Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
“ My charmer turn to see “ Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
« Restor'd to love and thee.
XXXIX . ** Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
66 And every care resign: * And shall we never, never part,
56 My life-my all that's mine?
« Xo never from this hour to part,
66 We'll live and love so true ; « The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
“ Shall break thy Edwin's too.”
DEATH OF A MAD DOG*.
people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race lie ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.
This, and the following Poem, appeared in the Vicar of Wakefield, which was published in the year 1765, VOL. I.