  'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. 'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.' 'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous 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 goodwill. '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 side, A guiltless feast I bring; A script, 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 lonely 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 cheered 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 fagot 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 opprest: '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 confest 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; Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed, But never talked of love. 'In humblest, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had; But these were all to me. 'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. 'The dew, the blossoms of 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. |
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