"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 lowly mansion lay,

A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed, and smiled;
And, skilled in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.
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 oppressed:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
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 betrayed:

Surprised, 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 unhallowed 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 lived beside the Tyne

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was marked as mine, He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumbered suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feigned a flame.

"Each hour, a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd-
But never talked 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 carolled lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on 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 touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain.

"Till quite dejected by my scorn, He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
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,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast;
The wondering fair one turned to chide-
"Twas Edwin's self that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign;

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine?

"No; never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true:

The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

O. Goldsmith.

XXIV.

OLD LONDON.*

THE history of many cities has been deciphered from inscriptions, and so the history of Old London may, much of it, be deciphered from the inscriptions which we find written up at the corners of its streets. These familiar names, which catch the eye as we pace the pavement, perpetually remind us of the London of bygone centuries, and recall the stages by which the long unlovely avenues of street have replaced the elms and hedgerows, and have spread over miles of pleasant fields, till scores of outlying villages have been absorbed into a "boundless contiguity" of brick and mortar.

By the aid of the street-names of London let us then endeavour to reconstruct the history of London, and, in the first place, let us take these names as our guide-book in making the circuit of

*From Words and Places.