Imatges de pÓgina
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And now when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest ;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gayly prest, and smild; And skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hour beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries ;
The cricket chirups in the hearth ;

The crackling faggot fies.
But nothing could a charm impart

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To footh the Atranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow,
His rising cares the hermit spy'd,

With answ'ring care oppreft : " And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,

“ The sorrows of thy breast ?

“ From better habitations fpurn'd,

" Reluctant dost thou rove: "Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

" Or unregarded love?

“ Alas the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifting and decay ; “ And those who prize the paltry things,

“ More trilling till 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?

fill;

" Here to the houseless child of want,

" My door is open " And tho'my portion is but fcant,

“ I give it with good will.

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“ 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 fidc

“ A guiltless feast I bring ; • A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

o And water from the spring.

“ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

6. For earth-born cares are wrong: " Man wants but little here below,

“ Nor wants that little long,"

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Soft as the dew from heav'ı descends,

His gentle accents fell :
The modeft itranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely manfion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And Iranger's led aftrày.

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No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a maiter's care ;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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And now when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest ;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gayly preft, and smil'd; And skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling’ring hour beguild.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries ;
The cricket chirups in the hearth;

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To footh the stranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spy'd,

With answ'ring care oppreft : " And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,

“ The forrows of thy breaft?

“ From better habitations fpurn'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 Deep ; " A shade that follows wealth or fame, * And leaves the wretch to weep?

" And love is ftill an emptier sound,

“ The modern fair one's jeft: « On earth unseen, or only found,

“ To warm the turtle's neft.

“For shame, fond youth, thy forrows hush,

“ And spurn the sex,” he said : But while he spoke, a rifing blush

His love-loro gueft betray'd.

Surpriz'd he fees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view ;
Like colours o'er the morning skics,

As bright, as tranfient too.

The bashful look, the rising breaft,

Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger ftands confeft

A maid in all her charms.

" And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,

" A wretch forlorn,” she cry'd ; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

“ Where heaven and you regide.

“ But let a maid thy pity share,

" Whom love has taught to stray ; " Who seeks for reft, but finds despair

is 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 (trove ; " Among the rest young Edwin bow'a, " But never talk d of love.

" In humble, fimpleft habit clad,

“ No wealth or pow'r had he ; “ Wisdom and worth were all he had,

" But these were all to me.

" The blossom op'ning to the day,

“ The dews of heavia refin’d, “ Could nought of purity display,

“ To emulate his mind.

“ The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

“ With charms inconftant thine ; " Their charms were his, but woe 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.

" '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 forrow, 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 ! o 'Twas só for me that Edwin did,

" And so for him will I."

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