'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 dang'rous gloom;
For yonder phantom only 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 Pow'r 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 heav'n 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,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their ev'ning 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 ling'ring 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 oppress'd:
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 hush,
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 confess'd
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 how'd,
But never talk'd of love.