covered to my daughter. He would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. " Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. "I never sit thus," says Sophia," but I think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better; and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends.”"It is remarkable," cried Mr Burchell, “that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects; and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection—a string of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; and, indeed, I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned," A BALLAD, "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, "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "Here to the houseless child of want And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, "No flocks that range the valley free Taught by that Power that pities me, "But from the mountain's grassy side A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, "Then, pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Soft as the dew from heaven descends, The modest stranger lowly bends, Far in a wilderness obscure A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch The wicket, opening with a latch, And now, when busy crowds retire "Man wants but little, nor that little long." YOUNG's Night Thoughts. The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And spread his vegetable store, Around, in sympathetic mirth, 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, "And love is still an emptier sound, "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, Surprised he sees new beauties rise, And while his passion touch'd my heart, "Till, quite dejected with my scorn, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And stretch me where he lay. "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, "Forbid it Heaven!" the Hermit cried, "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here, "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And shall we never, never part, My life my all that's mine? "No, never from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after, a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright had thrown herself into Mr Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he |